Autumn Wine
by Brighid45
Summary: The eleventh story in the Treatment series. Marriage counseling for Greg and Roz, along with the start of House's clinic-will both succeed? NOTE: this series is AU to canon storyline after the S5 finale 'Both Sides Now'. Drama, humor, angst and OC romance. Now revised and updated.
1. Chapter 1

_(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)_

_Of autumn's wine, now drink your fill; the frost's on the pumpkin, and snow's on the hill.__  
><em>_- The Old Farmer's Almanac, 1993_

_October 1st_

"Would you please teach me how to sew?"

Sarah gave the bread dough a final pat, draped a tea towel over it and looked at Roz, who stood in the kitchen doorway. "Come in and sit down, you have a few minutes before Hazel gets things started."

Roz came in slowly and perched on a stool at the island. Sarah handed her a scone and a napkin. "Here, taste-test this for me. I tried a new recipe." While the younger woman did as she asked, Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter. "You know how to sew, I taught you myself."

Roz swallowed and brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. "Yeah, true. But I can only do basic sewing." She took another bite of the scone, a bigger one this time. "This is really good. What's in it?"

"Pumpkin and pie spice, brown sugar with vanilla Greek yogurt," Sarah said. "The school's having a bake sale contest and I want to beat Rick's lemon bars this year." She took a teabag from the jar on the counter and put it in a mug, poured hot water from the kettle over it and set it aside to steep. "What kind of project do you have in mind that's so complicated you need my help?"

Roz looked behind her, then leaned forward. "A bathrobe for Greg," she said softly.

"You mean his old flannel plaid one finally died?" Sarah shook her head. "I think the only reason it held together this long was sheer force of will on Greg's part."

"No, he's still wearing it, but it's—" Roz waved the scone, clearly bereft of words. Sarah nodded. She was well acquainted with the garment in question. Ragged sleeves, holes under the arms, torn hem; she'd patched it several times while he was in residence, but any suggestion of buying something new was always met with a growl and a few pithy words of refusal.

"So . . . what? You want to make him something like what he has now?" She stirred her tea, took out the teabag and added some sugar.

"Yes. I'd like to make him a plaid flannel robe. I found the pattern," Roz said. "But it's more complicated than just making an A-line skirt or a vest."

"A robe made with pattern cloth is a fairly ambitious project," Sarah said, and thought of the intricacies involved. "It'll take more material. And flannel can be tricky if it's thick with a nappy surface."

"See, I need you." Roz put down the scone. "Please, Sare. I don't think anyone has ever made anything for him before. It would be the perfect Christmas gift, and it could be from both of us."

Sarah chuckled. "Emotional blackmailer," she said with a smile. "You don't have to work so hard to convince me, I'll be happy to help."

Roz got up and came to her for a hug. "Thanks," she said. Sarah kissed her cheek and held her close for a moment.

"You're welcome," she said. "Let's plan a day trip to Calico Corners next weekend. We can visit the farmer's market and do lunch at the café too, it'll be fun."

"What are you two plotting?" Greg hovered in the doorway and glowered at them. "Isn't it enough that we're here to get our heads shrunk without me living in fear for my life from whatever diabolical scheme you're hatching?"

Sarah put an arm around Roz's shoulders. "Never you mind," she said, her tone tart. "Don't be such a grouch and have a scone, I need another taste-tester."

Greg entered the kitchen with caution. He took a scone from the baking sheet and bit into it. His vivid gaze pinned Sarah as his jaws worked.

"Well?" she said, impatient. "How is it?"

"'sokay," he mumbled, and swallowed noisily. With the scone in one hand he went to the coffeemaker and poured a mug, dumped in some sugar, stirred and took a large sip. "Dry though."

"Damn." Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. "I knew it, just knew it."

"He's teasing you," Roz said on a laugh. "They're perfect."

"Dry," Greg insisted. He stuffed the other half into his mouth and reached for a second scone.

"If they're so inedible, why take another one? Anyway, you ate breakfast once already this morning," Roz pointed out. Greg raised his brows and shrugged, as he was momentarily incapable of speech. He snagged the second scone and left the kitchen, mug in hand. Sarah saw then he didn't use a cane. His limp was still pronounced, but he didn't lurch or need to hold onto counters or chairs to move forward. Her preoccupation with the bake sale fell away, replaced by delight. He's healing, she thought, really healing. I'm so glad.

"So we're on for next weekend?" she said aloud, but kept her voice down.

"We're on," Roz said, and gave her a conspiratorial smile just as Hazel said from the doorway,

"We can begin now."

[H]

Doctor House folded his arms and gave a defiant glare. "I refuse to participate."

Hazel didn't respond to the provocation. She observed both parties, noted body language and respiration, eye shifts and lip-licks, among other signs of stress or discomfort. Mrs. House—Roz—was a little nervous, but the dominant emotion was concern, not fear. Hazel was quite sure the younger woman was much as she appeared to be: straightforward and rational, likely to express herself in a quiet or simple way without exaggeration or overt emotion. She sat close to her husband but didn't crowd him; she understood his need for distance, both physically and emotionally, but stayed by him as well.

Doctor House was a different kettle of fish, however. His entire persona screamed defiance, distrust and outright hostility: his left leg bounced up and down in a rapid tattoo. The action spoke of deep-seated anxiety as well as impatience. She would have to go carefully with him.

"May I ask why?" Hazel kept her tone neutral.

"You know damn well why!" He glared at her.

"I doubt your wife does," she said. "Maybe if you explain to her, I'll have a reference point and we can start the session."

That shut him up, as she knew it would. Roz leaned forward slightly.

"You know each other?" It was a question, but her confusion was plain. "Greg's never mentioned you."

"I'm sure he wouldn't." Hazel smiled a little. "It was two years ago on Halloween. Doctor House was in the hospital and I came to visit him at Sarah's request."

Roz looked even more confused. "Halloween?"

"She showed up in my room as a gypsy fortune-teller," Doctor House said, his contempt plain. "A so-called doctor read my tarot cards."

"Well of course I did," Hazel said with some asperity. "You don't have to act like it's a capital crime to do a three-card spread."

"It's worse than that—it's garbage," House snapped. "Complete tripe, and you know it."

"And yet somehow I believe you've looked over a tarot deck or two in your time, even if it was just to figure out the symbolism," Hazel said softly. "I think you're fully aware of its use as an ancient psychological tool employing archetypes common in Western and to some extent, Eastern cultures."

"The fact that you felt and still feel that reading imparted any kind of knowledge or wisdom to me tells me all I need to know about you," House said.

"No it doesn't," Hazel said. House tilted his head.

"Vorobyov," he said. "It means 'of the sparrow'. You haven't Anglicized it so you're proud of the name even though your parents resented it, which means you're second generation Russian-American. You mentioned your grandmother taught you to cut the cards toward your heart, so you were close to her. She probably taught you how to read tarot, maybe even gave you the deck. You consider the act of reading an homage to her."

"Well done," Hazel said, impressed and amused. "Please continue."

"You're the first in your family to go to college. You chose a middle ground between what your parents wanted—medical school—and what you felt drawn to, psychology, hence your degree in psychiatry—classic overachiever goal. Your guilt drove you to a _summa cum laude_ standing and a doctorate with a thesis they're still talking about today."

"The internet is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" House acknowledged her point with a slight nod. "Right on almost all counts. I can see why you've attained such legendary status in the medical world." Hazel offered a slight smile.

"Almost all." House leaned forward a little.

"I never felt guilty about wanting to become a psychiatrist. Once my mother and father realized it was what I really wanted, they supported me all the way." She glanced at Roz. "Do you also object to working with me for the same reason your husband does?"

Roz shook her head. "I bust ghosts on the side. Who am I to point a finger at someone else's beliefs?"

"Do you really?" Hazel asked, delighted. "Extraordinary. What methods do you use?"

"_Jesus,_ here we go," House groaned. "We're supposed to be fighting you for attempting to enact the live version of 'Can This Marriage Be Saved.'"

Hazel saw Roz flinch—just a slight flicker of the eyes, but it was there. "If we're to work together I'd like to get to know you both," she said easily. "That includes outside interests."

"See, here's the thing," House said. "We're not going to work together."

"I have a say in this too," Roz said. "If you remember, you agreed to one session."

"I didn't say how long that session would be," House said. "Five minutes is more than enough."

"We need help." She said it simply, but with an intensity that sharpened Hazel's interest. "But it wouldn't matter who came in here to work with us, you'd find a way to dismiss them because you're scared."

"When did you get _your_ psych degree?" It was a nasty jab, but Roz didn't flinch.

"I'm just an electrician, but I know what I know."

"No one is just an electrician," Hazel said, more impressed by the moment with this quiet young woman. "It happens I agree with your assessment."

"Oh, great," House said with immense sarcasm. "Ganging up, the latest technique in counseling. I remember that one from school. You know, when the bully and his minions beat you up and take your lunch money."

"I'm not here to gang up on you, assault you in any way or extort answers," Hazel said. "But your wife is right. You are scared. What I'd like to know is why?"

"I don't think 'scared' is the right word," House said. "Try 'contemptuous'. Or 'skeptical', if you want something a little more politically correct." He smirked at her. "Very skeptical."

"Skeptics need empirical evidence to change their minds," Hazel said, amused. "In order to obtain that evidence you'll need several sessions to decide whether or not your skepticism is warranted. Do you agree?"

"Ah ah, nice try," House said. "Clever trap. If I agree, I'm stuck sitting here for x number of hours enduring whatever mumbo-jumbo you decide to spew my way. If I don't then I'm not skeptical, just a stubborn asshole."

"That second option sure seems accurate from where I'm sitting," Roz said. She looked upset now, her expression one of disquiet. "I thought you were willing to try this."

The expression on House's face changed instantly, from amused scorn to the fear that had been hidden all along under the mask he held up. Hazel drew in a breath. He was terrified of losing his wife, and yet he couldn't seem to help but push her away. _Good lord. Poor Sarah_, she thought. _Work with him must be like two long-distance marathons run back to back. _

"Fine," House muttered, and hunched down in his chair. Roz looked away, but Hazel saw the helplessness in her dark eyes.

"All right then. Why don't we agree to four sessions, one every two weeks. After that time, if you feel I'm not what you need, we'll part company and that's that," Hazel said. Roz nodded. House glowered at her but dipped his head slightly once. "Okay. Now that's settled, I'd like to hear about how you two met . . ."

[H]

Sarah took the loaves out of the oven, set them on the bread board to cool with a towel over them, and went out to the garden. It was an overcast day, chilly and gloomy. Dark clouds raced overhead, and a cold breeze brought out goosebumps on her exposed skin. She sat in the windsor chair and looked over what was left of the garden. The empty chair at her side reminded her of Gene's absence; he was in Philadelphia until the weekend, attending a conference. The garlic had been planted, three beds for three varieties, and the kale and broccoli had come along nicely. Everything else—tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, even the onions—were harvested and the raised beds mulched, ready for next spring's planting.

Sarah sighed. While she loved fall, it brought with it a certain melancholy, a knowledge of the cold and dark to come, as inevitable as the first hard frost, the first snow, the first down comforter on the bed. And yet there would also be the first bottle of wine from Annie's orchard, as well as bushels of apples to make into sauce and pies. Samhain, Thanksgiving and Yule would come in their turn, to offer light and warmth, and celebration.

_To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven_, Sarah heard her grandmother say. It was one of the few times they'd ever agreed on anything. She smiled and stood, picked up both chairs and went to the shed to store them away until next year. As she did so she thought of clothing patterns and fabric yardage, and whether she needed new needles for her sewing machine.


	2. Chapter 2

_October 10th_

Sarah put the last package of winter squash in the chest freezer, closed the lid and wiped a curl from her forehead. _Done for another year,_ she thought, and heard the front door bang shut. Only one person ever made that much noise on arrival, but it was early for him to show up . . . With a frown she left the mudroom and went into the kitchen. Greg had just come in. He moved slowly, shoulders hunched under his pea jacket. Sarah came forward to meet him. "Morning," she said. "You're up early."

He grunted and shrugged out of his jacket. Sarah took it, hung it on a peg by the back door and waved her free hand at the coffeemaker. "Help yourself. There are fresh muffins if you want some."

"What, no hash browns?" He took a mug from her collection and filled it with coffee.

"Not this morning. I can fry you an egg instead if you like." Sarah swallowed the last of her tea and rinsed out the mug. Greg didn't answer, just sat at the breakfast island, snagged a muffin from the lined basket and took an enormous bite, to scatter crumbs everywhere. Well used to his ways, Sarah located a small plate and placed it in front of him along with a napkin, the butter dish and a knife.

"What's up?" She sensed something, some struggle within him, that she couldn't quite define. "You and Roz have a tough morning?"

"Nosey parker," he said, his voice muffled by food.

"Don't talk and eat at the same time," Sarah said. Greg glared at her, but she saw a slight twinkle of grudging amusement in the vivid blue depths at the familiar exchange. "So? What happened?"

"Nothing. We're fine. Well, not _fine_ fine, but we didn't trash each other to start the day." Greg polished off his first muffin and reached for another one.

"And yet . . ." Sarah let the sentence dangle. Greg said nothing. Instead he split the muffin in half and spread a thick layer of butter over each cut side. Sarah didn't push. She knew he'd continue to tease her until he was ready to talk. He downed a sizeable swallow of coffee and contemplated the half he was about to demolish.

"You know, the lemon peel in these things really brings out the flavor of the blueberries."

"Thanks, glad you like it." Sarah began to rinse the pan she'd used to cook the squash.

"This is the recipe you're using to go after Rick," Greg said. "It's not good enough."

Sarah paused and turned to look at him. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. That's why it won't win."

She put some soap in the pan and ran water, watching suds bloom. "You mean it's too boring."

"It's too perfect."

"Ah. It doesn't stand out."

Greg nodded and hogged another bite. Sarah picked up the sponge and began to clean the pan. "So what would you recommend, Ye Source of Muffin Wisdom?"

He swallowed and chose another victim from the basket. "You said something about eggs earlier."

"Doesn't your wife feed you? I _swear_ you have a tapeworm," Sarah said, but she abandoned the pan momentarily to put the skillet on. "You gonna tell me what you think would work or not?"

"Savory," Greg said, and slathered butter on the muffin. "A pinch of basil. Maybe a little thyme. Just enough to catch your attention, not enough to overwhelm the other tastes."

"Huh," Sarah said, impressed. She cracked three eggs into a measuring cup and beat them together. "Okay, I'll try it."

"You win, you split the prize with me," Greg said. He gulped the last of his coffee and dumped crumbs everywhere as he got up to get another cup. Sarah poured the eggs into the hot skillet and gave them a stir.

"Half a hundred bucks, that's quite a haul," she said wryly. Greg peered at her as he stirred sugar into his mug.

"You can't be that hard up for money," he said, his words sharp. Sarah smiled a little as she took a clean bowl from the dishrack and set it by the skillet.

"No, of course not."

"Then you're planning on using your ill-gotten gain for something else." He watched as she put the scrambled eggs into the bowl.

"There's always a good use for money in this household," Sarah said. She took a fork out of the silverware drawer, stuck it in the eggs and pushed the bowl toward Greg. "I have any number of projects going that need an infusion of cash."

Greg began to eat the eggs. "Hah," he said, and reached for the pepper.

"Hah yourself," Sarah said. She worked on the pan. "How come you're up so early? You don't get out of bed before ten thirty on workdays."

He didn't answer right away. "I was awake."

"Your leg?"

"Yeah." He swallowed noisily. "And my wife. Both are bothering me."

"How so?" Sarah rinsed the pan and started on the utensils. "Do you need to talk with Gene about your meds?"

"Only if he's got anti-psychotics in his samples drawer."

Sarah turned her head to send Greg a look. "That bad?"

He poked at the eggs with his fork, his gaze bent down, but not before Sarah saw the defiance and fear in his features. She put down the spoon she cleaned, wiped her hands on her apron, then came over to sit down next to him. She put a hand on his knee. "Tell me."

Greg didn't speak for some time. Then he spoke, so quietly Sarah could barely hear him. "I'm gonna lose her." The deep anxiety in his words caught at her. "I'm gonna lose her, Sarah. I know it."

She waited. He sat still, his habitual restlessness gone for the moment. "I know she wants to try to keep us together, but I . . . there's just something in me that pushes people away."

"What else?" she said when he fell silent. He snorted.

"What else is there?"

"A lot." Sarah took his hand in hers. He didn't resist, didn't look at her. "Love is something that we do, son. You have to renew it every day, and it takes work. There are times when that work is the most difficult thing you've ever done, or will do. This is one of those times for both you and Roz." She paused. "Do you remember how you felt when you decided to marry her?"

He nodded. "It was the right thing to do. I knew it . . . just knew. Like a diagnosis coming together, everything sliding into place."

"Exactly. And that hasn't changed. But you have old voices in your head, telling you this won't work because it's never worked in the past. Things are different now though." She let him think it through.

"You mean because she wants it to work." His hesitancy made Sarah's heart ache. She set the feeling aside.

"Yes, but you want it too. Roz loves you with everything in her," she said softly. "You're two independent and strong people, but you can work together and bring your strengths and your weaknesses to each other, in friendship and in love. You and Roz are just starting out so there are bound to be mistakes, bumps in the road. Keep going, it gets better. Gene and I have had tough times . . ." She paused. "I left him once. It was the worst mistake I've ever made, even worse than—than the pregnancy." Greg lifted his gaze to hers. He said nothing, but she saw the question there and sighed softly. "It was early on in our marriage. We'd had a bad fight over his family and I said some terrible things that hurt him deeply. I was convinced he'd be better off without me, so I just—left. Three days later he found me-he hadn't slept in all that time, hadn't even changed his clothes . . . I thought for sure he'd blast me good and proper and leave, but he didn't. He sat next to me on the bed, took my hands in his, and asked me to come home because he wouldn't go back to our place without me." She shook her head and snorted softly. "Fool man, takin' me on when I was such a mess, but he loved me enough to want to work things out. He forgave the pain I caused him because it was worth more to him to keep our love than to keep a scorecard, and he's never held it against me to this day. No one had ever done that before. It changed everything because it caught me up with where he already was in the relationship." She squeezed Greg's hand gently. "You won't lose Roz unless you decide that's what's going to happen. It's not inevitable, son. It's a choice. So choose to stay with her. You won't regret it."

When she stood he did as well. He reached out just a little, a hesitant gesture. Sarah moved forward and embraced him, gently brought him close. He accepted her touch; his arm slid awkwardly around her waist. She felt him relax a bit, as his cheek rested against her hair. "It'll be all right," she said softly. "You'll see."

He exhaled, a slow, quiet breath, and then let go. Sarah released him, but not before she gave his back a little pat. "Finish your breakfast," she said. "I'll make your lunch."

"Wow, thanks _Mom,_" he said, but the sarcastic emphasis on her title was much less harsh than usual. She smiled at him and got the lunch meat out of the fridge.

"Roast beef or salami?"

An hour or so later, after Greg had headed off to work, Sarah sat down to make out her grocery list. She'd left her purse in its usual spot on the dining room table; she pulled it toward her and rummaged for a pen, then paused. The front compartment zipper was pulled back just enough to allow a couple of fingers in. With care she opened it further and saw her wallet in its usual spot—but the receipts she kept in the side pocket were gone.

_Someone had himself a little fishing expedition,_ she thought, both amused and exasperated by Greg's insatiable curiosity. _But when did he do it? He was with me the entire time . . . _Comprehension dawned. _He knows I know when he's here by the way he bangs the door. I bet he snuck in a few minutes before that and went through my purse, then went back and came in the house again. And then he staged that whole emotional display to distract me . . . though he meant it, he didn't lie. He knew a less-than-honest exchange would tell me something was up. That __stinker__. _She shook her head and dug out her cell phone to send a text message to Roz, one they'd decided on in case Greg began to pry into their secret.

_hey sis it's a go love S _

[H]

Roz pulled into the drive next to Minnie Lou and put the truck in park, then shut off the engine. "You know, we don't have to do this," she said. It had been a quiet ride from their place to the clinic; Greg had mostly looked out the window, silent and impassive. She hadn't gotten a sense of anger or resentment, but he plainly wasn't too thrilled either.

"I own the place and it's a board meeting," Greg said. "I do have to do this. You don't though."

It hurt. She couldn't help it, it hurt. "No, I don't," she said, and struggled not to feel pushed away. "It's my choice to support my husband." She didn't try to touch him, though it was hard to resist. He looked vulnerable and lonely, until he turned his head to stare at her. His expression was unreadable, but she had the feeling she'd surprised him somehow.

"'kay," he said at last, and opened the door.

Gene and Sarah waited inside. They'd brought a card table, a couple of small lamps, Gene's iPod with a pair of mini-speakers and some chairs; a plate of cookies, several bottles of iced tea and a bowl of pretzels sat in the middle of the table. Music played softly, something funky and exactly right for the occasion. Roz smiled a little. That was Sarah's idea, no doubt. She always made sure the people around her were provided for and comfortable. The room looked far more inviting in the soft light of the lamps.

"Will's gonna be here too," Sarah said as Gene held up his phone. "So we have a full board meeting."

Greg took a chair and sat down slowly. He'd relaxed a little, but he was still anxious. Roz selected a seat and started to move it back from the table.

"You're here, you should sit with us," Greg said. His tone was harsh, but Roz caught the glance he flashed at her—equal parts plea and demand. So she sat at the table and made sure she was close to him.

"Everyone settled?" Sarah asked. She took a bottle of iced tea and opened it while Gene took a handful of pretzels. "Let's get Will on speaker phone and begin."

"Hey," Will said a minute or two later. "You need wi-fi, put that on the list."

"First things first," Greg said. He took a couple of pretzels. Roz saw his knee bounce, but it was to the beat of the music. "We're here to figure out where we stand now and what still needs doing." He glanced at Roz. "How close are we to wired up?"

" About two-thirds done," she said. "Mostly small stuff now, and the lab."

"Yeah, about the lab," Will said. "That's my baby. I have the money for what you need, no problem."

Greg hadn't expected that. "We're not talking chump change," he said slowly. "We need the basics and a few other things, that won't come cheap."

"It's all cool," Will said. "We can work out payback with consulting fees or something. That's if you'll let me work with you."

"Don't see any reason why not," Greg said. He looked at Gene. "The rest of the renovation?"

"A couple of windows need replacing and there's some drywall to hang still, and the floors to finish. After that we can start bringing in the furniture and equipment," Gene said. "I've got a great source for all of that. We can cut the bill by a third at least, maybe half in some places."

Greg nodded. "Okay." He glanced at Sarah and popped a couple of pretzels. "You got the battleax signed on yet?"

"I'm not pushing her," Sarah said. "I think the hook's set, but we need to let the line play out a little more before we reel her in."

"Nice metaphor."

Sarah inclined her head in acknowledgment. "So you're ready to start looking for your team."

"Soon enough." Greg dismissed it, but Roz saw his fingers tighten on his right thigh, rub it for a moment and then move away. He was worried about the whole enterprise, but the team in particular had him anxious. There was nothing she could do to help him with that task, but she could at least listen if he wanted to talk . . . She looked around the room and couldn't repress a shiver. The memory of Wilson and Greg's argument, of Greg's contemptuous comment to her, still echoed in this room. She wasn't sure she would ever be able to enter it without the memory of that afternoon.

"Hey." Greg was watching her, his gaze intent. "Pay attention, no daydreaming allowed." And then to her astonishment he took her hand in his. The meeting went on, but Roz heard very little of it. She was pulled out of the conversation by the feel of Greg's lean fingers around hers. His thumb slowly caressed the back of her hand. His touch held the memories at bay, put them in perspective; he'd hurt her deeply, but this wordless request for closeness spoke louder than the echoes of the recent past. Something within her, some tight little knot in a corner of her secret heart, began to loosen.

Soon enough they were on their way home through the darkness. Roz kept her speed down; she knew this back road was a heavily traveled deer crossing, particularly this time of year.

"You were remembering what happened," Greg said after a few moments.

"Yes." She saw no point in being anything other than honest.

"So that's it." He sounded bitter. "You'll never forget."

"I want to," she said. "Tonight . . . what you did helped." She reached out and touched his hand. "More would be nice."

He didn't respond at first. "Will you?" he said finally. "Forget?"

"I love you," she said. "That means more to me than anything else. So I guess that's a yes."

His hand sought hers, held it tight. She smiled in the darkness, and felt the knot loosen a little more.


	3. Chapter 3

Singh shook off the late afternoon chill as he entered his workplace. It was dead quiet—not unusual for a Monday, though that wouldn't be the case later when the high school football team began practice. He always had at least one bad bruise or sprain to deal with, and the occasional torn ligament, hairline fracture or concussion, accompanied by a worried mom and/or coach and the need for copious reassurance. Later on there would be a household accident of some kind, maybe even a birth; Tony Hutch's wife was in her ninth month and ready to pop. At any rate, if nothing else he'd decided to do some tidying up and finish off long-overdue file notes. While the task wouldn't keep boredom at bay, he would accomplish something and prevent another round of not-so-gentle reminders from Wirth.

He exchanged his jacket for a clean lab coat, bought a Coke from the vending machine, washed his hands, tucked his stethoscope in his pocket, and went into the emergency bay where he knew House waited with unconcealed impatience for him to show up.

He was mistaken, however; House was nowhere to be seen. The bay was pristine, not a single supply or drape disturbed. Singh stood there for a moment, aware that a mild apprehension knocked politely at the door of his mind for admittance. He ignored it and headed for House's office.

Sure enough, his colleague was in residence. The door was closed but music drifted into the hallway, blues of some kind—Robert Johnson, if he had to hazard a guess. Singh smiled a little, relieved. He didn't bother to knock, just opened the door and walked in. House sat at his desk, feet propped on the blotter. He was kicked back in his Eames chair, several folders piled on his spare belly, a blissful expression on his face. Singh took the only other seat in the room, a comfortable wing chair he'd donated to replace the hideous plastic torture device House had kept as a means to discourage visitors. He opened his Coke, took a sip and said "How's the search going?"

House opened one eye. "Five already? Time does fly, even in this bottomless sinkhole of boredom." He grabbed the files, tossed them on the desk. "It isn't."

"Dead end?" Singh sat up a bit. "How about a fresh set of eyes looking over your candidates?"

"Where would I put a fresh set, in my forehead?" But House flapped a hand at the files. "Help yourself."

Singh set down his Coke and picked up a file. After a moment he took his reading glasses out of his breast pocket. "Damn print's way too small."

"Your vision sucks," House said. "Even for an old guy."

"You're ten years older than me." Singh perused the contents. "Good grief. This has to be a practical joke. Some researcher in Prague wants in?"

"She gets the medical terms right even if her English is basic," House said. "You of all people have no reason to be a culture snob."

"My great-grandparents were immigrants. That means I'm thoroughly Americanized and can be as snobbish as I please," Singh said, lifting a page.

"Says the man whose wife brings _aloo gobhi_ to potlucks," House said. "It's so Yankee of you, offering up Bolly cauli."

"You ate most of it the last time," Singh reminded him. He glanced over the candidate's CV. "Some impressive listings here."

"Too impressive. I have the sense if I did some digging I'd find out she's either completely full of it or . . . she's completely full of it."

"Mmph." Singh tossed the file on the desk and picked up the next one. He peered at it before recognition registered. "Robert Chase—wasn't he one of your fellows at Princeton-Plainsboro?"

"Yeah."

"Good solid resume," Singh said, as he glanced over the list. "He's working with one of the best surgeons on the East Coast at PPTH." He glanced at House. "You're considering taking him on again?"

"Unsure." Clearly House was of two minds on the subject. Singh sat back.

"Pros?" he asked. House shrugged.

"I know what to expect from him."

"Cons?"

"I know what to expect from him."

"Ah." Singh put the folder on the desk. "Did he submit his candidacy himself or did you put him in?"

"He sent it." House glanced at his watch. "Just heard the factory whistle." He brought his feet down and stood—slowly, but without the need to hold onto anything. Singh grinned.

"Nicely done."

"It's a gift." House gestured at the turntable. "Tidy up when you leave."

Singh nodded. "When's the next practice session? We need to decide what we're playing for the Halloween party at the fire hall."

"Sixteenth." House moved toward the door. "Hutch's old lady will probably show up tonight, she called earlier. She thinks her water's about to break. The control freaks at the nurses station have everything set up already. All you need is salad spoons and a catcher's mitt."

"Okay. Say hi to Roz for me," Singh said, and collected up the files to take with him as House limped down the corridor to freedom.

He looked over the various applicants as the evening progressed. In between care for a nasty sprain for the varsity team's tight end, and the birth of Tony's fourth child, a little boy with a healthy set of lungs, all the appropriate appendages and a nice pink color under the blood and goop, Singh read through six files. None of them passed muster, at least in his opinion; they didn't have that spark of curiosity he knew House looked for, that hunger to find the truth, the solution to the puzzle.

In the small hours of the morning Singh went back to House's office and retrieved the rest of the files, a sizable stack. He stopped off at his own lair, unearthed a notepad from the detritus on his desk, then carried everything into the break room and set up shop at the table while his dinner heated in the microwave. With the tv on in the background—a regrettable habit he'd picked up from his children—he read each file, then wrote a brief opinion and tucked it into the folder.

By the time his end of shift had arrived he'd found two likely candidates. Whether House would see them that way as well was up to him of course, but Singh thought the chances were good. He took the files back to House's office, stopped on the return trip to the emergency bay to check on Tony, his wife and their new son, dropped off his lab coat at the laundry, and spent a few moments with his boss before he left. She was already well into a fresh pot of coffee and at her computer, but she left off long enough to chat with him.

"House having any luck finding someone?" Diane gave Singh a steady look. "Has he asked you?"

Singh shook his head. "I'm not what he's looking for," he said.

"Sure about that? You and Greg are a good team." Wirth sipped her coffee. "I made him promise not to poach on my grounds, but if you really wanted to go I'd let you."

"We're a good team here where we're more or less equals," Singh said. "I don't know if that would be the case with me as his fellow. If he wants a consult I'd be happy to oblige, otherwise I doubt he'd consider I have the right stuff."

"Okay, Sandesh," Wirth said simply. "Head on home, you've had a long night. Kiss the kids for me."

Chitra was already awake when he arrived, as usual; she offered him coffee and an egg-white omelette, forever mindful of his waistline. He remembered the fresh crullers he'd munched in Diane's office and accepted his breakfast without demur.

"Quiet night?" Chitra sat across the table and sipped her tea.

"Tony has a son." Singh ate a bite of omelette. "Andrea popped him out like a watermelon seed. I don't think it took more than an hour from the first hard contraction."

"Not surprising, this is her fourth baby." Chitra eyed him with mild suspicion. "Something else is on your mind."

"Went over some candidate applications for House." He poked at a bit of green pepper, pushed it aside. "When he opens the clinic Diane will have to hire someone else. We'll get stuck with a jerk, I just know it."

"That maniac has spoiled you," Chitra said in a severe tone, but Singh wasn't fooled. She liked House, had even dared to twit him to his face on occasion and thus earned a modicum of his respect. "What you mean is you're afraid Diane will hire someone who actually works instead of playing ping-pong with tongue depressors and cotton balls, or finding some new way to torment the nurses." She folded her arms. "You'll still see him on a regular basis, you know."

"It won't be the same." Singh put down his fork, his appetite fled. "The band is great, but working with him . . . He's brilliant, Chee. I've learned so much. He knows I'm just a GP with a little surgical experience on the side, but he's never mocked me for it."

"That's because you're more than just a GP with a little surgical experience. If that's all you were he wouldn't bother with you. Have you thought about becoming a candidate?" Chitra said after a brief silence. Singh shook his head.

"No, not really. I'm not what he's looking for."

"Don't be so sure. You should consider it." Chitra took his plate, stood and went to the sink. "I would even be willing to endorse you if I get a promise you won't eat half a dozen of Rick's crullers at work every morning. You're a doctor, you know about cholesterol and triglycerides."

"Much to my misfortune, so do you," Singh said. "You really think I should do it?" He hesitated. "What if—what do I do when he turns me down?"

"Who says he will?" Chitra rinsed the plate. "But if he does, would you be resentful?"

Singh thought about it. "No," he said at last. "No, I don't believe so. He's honest and his reasoning is sound. If he rejected my application it would be for a logical reason, not a personal one. I think."

"No, you're right," Chitra said. She glanced at the ceiling when the thud of feet sounded through the wood and plaster. "First one's up."

"Thanks for the warning." Singh finished his coffee and held the empty cup for a moment. "You really think I should apply?"

"_Yes._" Chitra came over to take the cup. She put her hand on his shoulder. "You've held your own with House for over a year now. In fact the two of you are friends, though he'd never say so. As I said before, I think he chooses the people he associates with fairly carefully. That should tell you something." She patted him, then took his cup to the sink. "Write up your CV and leave it for me to polish. I can fit it in with the other paperwork someone will foist off on me at the office."

"God, I haven't done a resume in years," he said, struck by the thought and the edge of fear it brought up.

"There's a tutorial in the computer," Chitra said. "Go to bed and come to it fresh this afternoon. You can print out the form you want to use and work on it tonight. I'll clean it up and have it ready to go in a day or two. Okay?"

"Okay," Singh said, just as the first child came through the door. She yawned, hair ruffled and pajamas askew.

"Dad! Did you bring doughnuts?"

"Point, set and match," Chitra said. "No, Dad didn't bring doughnuts, and if you want what breakfast there is you'll get dressed and comb your hair first. Clock's ticking, get busy."

Singh held out his arms, gave his youngest a hug and a kiss, then lightly smacked her bottom. "You heard your mother. Off you go." He watched her shuffle out of the kitchen, a pout stuck on her normally cheerful face, and thought about what his wife had offered. "Okay, I'll work on things tonight."

"Good. Now off _you_ go, and get some rest."

He lay in bed for some time as the house emptied and quieted, and watched weak sunshine creep into the room. Unfortunately his mind couldn't find the same peacefulness. _What if applying is a huge mistake? What if this destroys our friendship and working relationship?_ While he agreed with Chitra that House chose his acquaintances with care, he was also well aware of the other man's ability to walk away without a qualm if he felt it was warranted.

Eventually Singh tired of his thoughts as they chased each other round and round in his head like hamsters on a wheel, and took a sedative—usually a last resort, when the environment was so noisy sleep was improbable. He set his alarm for an hour before his usual time; he'd be groggy and hard to rouse. His last thought was _This is either the biggest mistake or the biggest opportunity, but at least I'll know fairly quickly which one is correct._


	4. Chapter 4

_October 15th_

"How do you spell 'incandescent'?"

"Look it up," Sarah heard Greg say from the living room before she could reply. He sounded belligerent and worse, anxious.

"How can I look it up if I don't know how to spell it?" Jason wanted to know. It was clear he was annoyed at Greg's comment.

"Just do it!" Greg snapped.

Sarah dumped the last of the whites into the washer, added the detergent, started the load and went to Jason, who sat at the dining room table with his homework. Mandy sat opposite him, writing in a battered notebook, an English grammar handy. She looked worried, glancing in the direction of the living room before giving Sarah a small smile.

"Here . . ." Sarah opened the dictionary to the right page. "If you can't find it, let me know." She returned Mandy's smile. "How's the writing going?"

"Okay," Mandy said, but she clutched her pen like a lifeline. Sarah sighed silently.

"Listen, I'm going out for a while with Doctor House," she said quietly. "Can I trust you two to keep an eye on things while we're gone? It won't be for too long."

"Yeah," Jason said, his concentration focused on the search for the word he wanted. Mandy nodded, her relief plain.

"What do we do if there's a problem?" she asked.

"You can knock on the office door and ask Doctor Vorobyov and Roz to help. My cell phone number is on the fridge as well, okay?" When Mandy nodded Sarah smiled at her. "Good. Thanks. We'll be back shortly." She left the two of them to walk into the living room. Greg was sprawled out in his favorite easy chair, which he had turned to face the office door. His left leg bounced in a rapid tattoo. At her entrance he spared her a fierce glare. His blue eyes glittered with hostility.

"_What?_" he growled.

"I need your help," she said. "Annie's got some apples set aside for me. It's time to pick them up."

"Is that the best you can do?" he jeered.

"For right now, yes," she said. "You need to get out of the house, I need to pick up my order. Come on, get your jacket." When he didn't answer she said quietly, "Your sitting here agonizing over what Roz might or might not be talking about will not help matters. Nor will taking your anxiety out on everyone around you. It's a nice day. Some sunshine and exercise will do us both good." She paused. "I'll buy you a dozen cider doughnuts and you can have them all to yourself."

His leg stilled. "A substantial bribe . . . you must really be worried."

"I know what motivates you," Sarah said. "Get your jacket and let's go."

Five minutes later they were headed down the road. Greg stared out the window, arms folded.

"What has you so het up?" Sarah made it a mild inquiry. He didn't answer. "Do you think Roz is going to tell Hazel lies about you?"

"We're supposed to be in marriage counseling together, so how come I'm here with you instead of facing the Borscht Queen?" he paused. "Borg, borscht—see what I did there?"

"If you have to explain the joke you kill it." Sarah slowed down for the four-way stop. "Hazel needs to talk with Roz one-on-one before she brings you in. You understand the process, there's no need for me to spell it out."

"Anything my wife can say in private she can say in front of me," Greg muttered.

"What if the situation was reversed? Would you want to talk about your father's abuse or your mother's neglect in front of Roz if you hadn't ever spoken of it before?"

Greg hunched his shoulders. "That is _so_ not the same."

"Not exactly, but close enough." Sarah glanced at him. "You're pouting."

"Am not."

"Are too. You need to lug some baskets of apples around to make you feel strong and manly." That earned her a snort. "Besides, you'll be able to taunt Gene with the fact that he was away and you had to help out."

"And a dozen doughnuts," he reminded her.

"And a dozen doughnuts." She pulled onto the road that led to Annie's orchards and farm stand. "Do you trust Roz?"

Greg glared at her, his momentary good mood vanished. "Fuck you."

"Not unless your name is Gene Goldman," she said, unperturbed. "Answer the question."

"I get another box of doughnutty goodness if I do."

"_Gregory._" She allowed a hint of laughter in the mock rebuke.

"Fine." He returned his gaze to the window. "Don't know what you want me to tell you."

"The truth."

He flinched. "You expect me to say yes."

"I expect you to say whatever the answer is."

"Because a resounding no will undoubtedly shut you up on the subject."

"Is the answer no?" Sarah asked mildly.

"I . . ." He fidgeted and looked anywhere but at her. "Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn't. Now you're gonna tell me I have to make up my mind one way or the other."

"I was going to say that trust is a process," Sarah said. "We've discussed this in various ways over the last two years, but it always comes down to two things: it takes time. And there are usually glitches, moments when you're not sure or you get hurt and the trust fades for a while. But if you work at it, it can come back." She slowed for the turn into the main access drive. "Roz is going through the same thing, you know. That's why she needs to talk with Hazel on her own."

Greg said nothing more as she found a parking spot as close to the stand as possible. Once Minnie's engine was off he hopped out and shut the door, clearly eager to leave the conversation behind. Sarah tucked the keys in her pocket and climbed out as she fought momentary discouragement. _You know he has severe trust issues,_ she reminded herself. _This isn't going to be solved quickly. He might never be able to trust completely. Just take things as they come and be glad for every step forward._ She tucked her wallet in her back pocket and went to the stand.

"Got your order ready," Annie said, as amiable and sharp-eyed as ever, though she'd added a wrinkle or two over the course of the summer. Her silver hair gleamed in the bright sunlight. "Two Macs, one Northern Spy, one Winesap. Put some of them Baldwins aside for you too, if you want 'em." She glanced at Greg, who glared at her. She smiled back at him, unfazed. "Doc House," she said. He huffed and moved toward one of the baskets of apples.

"And three dozen doughnuts, please," Sarah said. "Along with two gallons of cider."

"Them's some chowhounds you have at your place," the older woman laughed. "You want a jug or two of that applejack my son made, don'tcha? I remember your husband likes it in particular."

"The applejack too," Sarah said, and went to lower the tailgate.

Greg managed the bushels with more dexterity than she thought he would. He lifted them into Minnie's flatbed without too much difficulty, his limp a bit more pronounced than usual but nothing out of the ordinary; all that work on the woodpile over the summer had paid off in superior upper body strength, and the new muscle in his right thigh helped balance things out. Sarah watched him, her heart filled with quiet joy. It was plain he reveled in the physicality of the chore, and she savored his pride in his new ability.

She paid Annie, invited her to the Halloween party at the fire hall, and they were on their way. Greg rubbed his thigh as she hopped into the driver's seat and fired up the engine. "You know she won't come. Why bother saying anything?"

"Because it's polite," Sarah said. "And because she's my neighbor." She pulled out into the access drive and listened to Minnie groan a little under her burden.

"We're five miles from your place," Greg pointed out. "That hardly lets you share gossip over the fence."

"There speaks a city dweller," Sarah said. "Everyone in the farming community is your neighbor. You never know when you or someone else might need help, so you depend on everyone, just as they depend on you."

"Ah, this is one of your charming little parables to illustrate the point you're trying to make about trust," Greg said. "Nice try, Daisy Mae." He opened the top box of doughnuts between them and took one out, bit into it. "Mmmm . . . _doughnuts_."

"You're not even gonna offer me one, are you?"

"Nope."

She sighed. "Brat. Boys are mean." He rubbed his thigh again and she gave him a sharp look. "What's wrong?"

"Don't freak out, everything's fine. I'm just a little sore." Greg took another bite of doughnut.

"Sore enough to put some moist heat on it when we get home?" she asked quietly. After a moment he nodded. "Okay. Gene will be back this evening, you and he can bring the apples in together tomorrow. It won't hurt them to sit outside one more night."

"I'll bring them in." It was a statement of fact, delivered with just a touch of arrogance. Sarah hid a smile.

"Well all right," she said in a mild tone. Greg stuffed the last of the doughnut into his mouth and put a possessive hand on the box as he sent her a sidelong look. _Mine,_ that look said. It was similar to the expression he'd worn outside the office. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Three year old." She said it with affection, though a corner of her heart felt sorrow for the old pain behind the gesture. "Don't spoil your lunch."

"Jeez, _Mom._"

[H]

"I'm afraid I'm going to lose him."

Hazel stirred her tea. She looked over the younger woman opposite her. Rosa—Roz, as she preferred, sat quietly. She was not tense, not anxious, but a sense of resignation came through clearly in her attitude. "Why do you say that?" Hazel asked. Roz looked away and didn't answer. "Is it something he's said, some action he's taken that makes you feel that way?"

Roz folded her arm across her belly, hiding her damaged hand at her side. "Yes, sort of."

"You told me about what happened in the clinic." Hazel removed the spoon and lifted the cup, took an appreciative sip. "Perhaps that's what you're referring to?"

"Not . . . not really. I know I wasn't the target . . ."

"But what he said hurt you deeply. It was cruel," Hazel said softly. "He pushed you away when you hadn't expected anything of the sort." She set her cup in its saucer. "Like your mother and father, I think."

"I didn't expect anything else from my mother." Roz said it without inflection. "I never really knew my father."

"They left you, both literally and figuratively," Hazel said. "You loved them even after you understood they hurt you, and they were still foolish enough to reject you. Your grandparents did truly love you, and then your grandmother died. Now you love Gregory, and you believe he'll leave because he has a tendency to put up barriers to strong emotion, which can feel like rejection."

"Foolish enough . . . that's one way to look at it," Roz said. "Sometimes—" She stopped.

"Go on," Hazel said gently.

"Sometimes I think they were right." She whispered the words. It was plain she was ashamed, but determined to speak out anyway.

"Now you're being honest," Hazel said, and smiled a little. "That's good." She picked up her tea and took a sip, held the warm cup in her hands. "All right then. I could sit here and tell you you're worth far more than you or anyone else thinks you are, and it would be the truth. The problem is, you won't believe me. You must discover your own worth for yourself."

"How do I do that?" Roz asked when Hazel didn't go on.

"I'm not quite sure," Hazel said. Roz looked a bit shocked, her sadness forgotten for the moment.

"Aren't you supposed to know that kind of thing?"

"The quick answer is yes. The more truthful answer is, sometimes it takes time to find the right way to help someone help themselves. I think the method's quite close, but I can't see it just yet." Hazel took another sip of tea. "It might come to me in a dream tonight, or perhaps I'll do a reading to see what's indicated."

Roz spared her a skeptical glance. Hazel laughed. "No matter what you and your husband believe, there are other ways of accessing information, my dear rational-minded young woman, than the strictly scientific. Anyway, you let me worry about that side of things. Now, if you're willing I'd like you to tell me about your childhood and how your grandparents raised you."

She listened while Roz spoke, took in the unhurried words, the simple sentences, the emotion tucked away behind the history. It was true, Roz had no idea what a rare jewel she was: a good woman with far too much pain in her past, yet still willing to open her heart and give the love she'd kept deep within. The depth of that feeling was amazing; no wonder Gregory was in a state of panic. He both longed for and feared emotion this profound and open.

"Thank you," she said when Roz was finished. "One day soon I'd like to meet with your grandfather, if he's agreeable."

"May I ask a question?" Roz said. Hazel nodded. "Do you . . . do you think we have a chance? Do you think he'll . . . he'll stay?" She hesitated. "He said to me that my love would never be unrequited."

Hazel felt a lump come up in her throat. "Yes, I think you have an extraordinary chance," she said. "As for whether or not Gregory will stay, that's something only time will tell. But from what you've just told me, I don't think he's going away any time soon." She reached out, hands palm up. Slowly Roz took them with her own. A blush touched her cheeks. Hazel smiled and clasped the slender work-worn fingers gently. "Let's take a little break and get some lunch, and then we'll bring in your estimable husband and see what happens next."

They left the office, and the first thing Hazel saw was the two children at the dining room table, homework spread around them. Her words came back to her: _I think the method's quite close, but I can't see it just yet. _"Hah," she said, and couldn't help but chuckle. "Very funny. All right, who am I not to take a hint straight from the subconscious?" She moved forward as she found delight in the simplicity and brilliance of the answer, and hoped it would work.

A few minutes later Sarah and Gregory returned. Hazel watched him from the dining room where she had perched to chat with the two young people. He moved more slowly than usual, his hand on his right thigh. He sat down in one of the easy chairs, his lean features drawn. Roz entered the room and saw him there. Without a word she went to him and crouched by his chair, her hand over his. She spoke softly; he nodded, said something in return. She put her other hand on his arm, rubbed it gently. Then she straightened and left the living room, to pass Hazel on the way. Gregory's gaze followed her. Hope, fear, yearning flashed in his vivid blue eyes before he caught sight of Hazel and looked away.

_They really are right for each other,_ Hazel thought, and knew she had to help this couple succeed.


	5. Chapter 5

_October 21st_

It's the end of a beautiful week, weather-wise at least, when Greg arrives home. He pulls in, parks and shuts off the engine. He doesn't get out right away though; he listens to the motor tick and ping as it begins to cool, watches a few colored leaves fall in lazy spirals onto Barbarella's hood. Autumn advances quickly now, as it tends to do here at a higher elevation. Soon enough the snow and cold will make its appearance.

On that cheerful thought he gives his second-best girl an affectionate pat, exits and goes into the house via the back door. He likes to enter through the kitchen. It's an intimate, even welcoming act, the kind he's never associated with any place he's lived before, at least not until he was accepted as a member of the family in Sarah and Gene's home. Now he revels in the feeling, though he'd never admit it out loud. And even better, he can grab a snack, a couple of paper towels and a beer on his way to the living room.

In short order he is duly fortified and sits at the piano, a cold bottle of brew perched atop a coaster and close at hand. It's become his ritual to practice after work. It's a great way to unwind, but he also happens to know Roz likes to come home to a house filled with music. He's not averse to a setting that will give him an advantage; he needs every bit of handicap he can manage, so to speak.

So he putters his way through a number of favorites, and relishes the sensation of the music as it steals into his busy mind to nudge aside anxieties, resentments, boredom. He pauses now and then to munch a handful of corn chips, careful to wipe his hands before he touches the keys—the only time he ever worries about a nicety like clean fingers—and washes the chips down with beer. It reminds him of the many evenings he spent in bars in Princeton and elsewhere, only better: he's at home so no worries about a drive home while under the influence, and he's got a woman who wants to spend time with him without money in exchange. And the case of beer is all his as well, or nearly so; Roz will claim a couple of bottles, but that's all.

He thinks about that while his hands wander over the keys. It is a continual source of amazement to him that Roz is still at his side. Stacy is the only other woman to have stayed longer than a few days, and even she gave up in the end after he pushed her far enough away. And that's what he fears more than anything, along with the unlikely but still possible failure of the muscle regrowth protocol. It's entirely probable Roz will reach her limit with him at some point and walk out for good. His work with Sarah notwithstanding, as he once said to someone else, he's alienated people since he was three. All the evidence indicates the same result this time too.

And yet here he is, ready to do his best to impress the woman he's married—_married_, he still can't believe they actually made the commitment—in the hope it will persuade her to stay a little longer. A forlorn hope, but he has to try because if he loses her it would probably kill him, something he doesn't admit even to himself more than he absolutely must. The thought of it terrifies him. And yet it's the truth under everything he says and does with Roz.

A short time later he hears her come in. She goes through the same ritual every workday: peels off her jacket, steps out of her boots, puts her toolbox in its usual spot under the side table, greets Hellboy (who undoubtedly winds around her feet as he begs for an early dinner, ever the opportunist). Then she comes through his section of the living room on her way to get changed. She pauses by the piano, moves to his side. When he looks at her she bends down and kisses him, a soft touch of her lips to his. Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, light and yet somehow substantial at the same time. She wears her faded dark blue jumpsuit, the one she keeps for jobs spent in attics or basements. While there are a few faint smears of dust here and there, he knows she cleaned up before she came in; she hates to be unkempt or dirty, which is a small reason why his comment at the clinic hurt her so deeply. The jumpsuit warns him she'll be tired and more easily annoyed than she might be otherwise. Not like that's going to stop him shooting his mouth off if the occasion arises, it's the mental equivalent of a congenital defect and he has no control over it.

"Hey." He continues to play, afraid to initiate a conversation because it means he'll piss her off that much quicker. To his astonishment and secret delight she kisses him again, a touch at his temple, her breath warm on his skin. When it's finished she says

"I missed you today." There's a sweetness in her cool, sardonic tone that he savors because he knows it's for him.

"We saw each other this morning," he can't help but remind her.

"I remember." When she straightens she gives him a smile. She's tired, he can see it in the fine lines around her eyes, the slight droop of her shoulders. And yet there's genuine warmth in her regard, the curve of her lips.

"Let's do pizza," he says after a few moments.

"Okay," she says, and sounds pleased. "Game's on tonight."

"Ah, so you'll get your nap in then," he dares to tease. She gives him a light thump on the head with her thumb and forefinger and follows it with a kiss.

"Just for that you get to pick it up." She offers him a smile before she and Hellboy go to the bedroom.

Lou's is fairly busy for a Monday night. The girls and boys soccer teams will arrive a little later post-game. Right now it's mostly people like him who are here to pick up their after-work orders. Sarah is on tonight, at the register and out to wait table as well as at work in the prep area. Her red curls are tied up in a ponytail, and she has a white tee shirt and jeans on under her black apron. She looks all of twenty-one, a pencil tucked behind her ear and her order pad tucked into her apron pocket. When she sees Greg her face brightens with happiness, and he feels that mix of deep affection and utter bewilderment her reaction always engenders in him.

"Givin' Roz a break tonight, now that's a good man," she says with a smile, and puts a pizza box with several packages and a two-liter of Coke on top of the counter. She pushes everything toward him. "Here. Enjoy."

"For god's sake, I'm just sick of her cooking. And we didn't order all that." He tries to sound annoyed.

"I added some extras," Sarah says. "My treat tonight."

"Hoping to induce conjugal bliss?" he wants to know.

"Yours or mine?" Her musical laugh eases his mind, as it always does. "Stop teasin' me and take dinner home before it's too cold to eat. I'll see you in the morning."

He collects everything and heads off to the car, proud that he can carry with both hands and not worry (well, not too much anyway) about accidents.

The extras turn out to be a double order of extra-crispy onion rings, a large _antipasto_ and some of Lou's garlic knots along with the three-quarters meat lovers, one-quarter vegetarian pizza. Roz sets it all out on the counter buffet style and loads up their plates while he pops open a couple of beers. She claims a spot next to him on the couch. This is another ritual he treasures, with Roz snuggled in at his side, her slender body solid and warm against his. They munch and watch the evening news, ready to switch over to the pre-game show after the Powerball drawing. His wife bought a ticket, something he deplores since the lottery runs on the same lines as a casino—things are set up so the house always wins. "You're still paying the stupid tax I see," he says, unable to help himself. But Roz just chuckles.

"Hey, I think some of my numbers matched," she says. She sets down her plate and goes into the kitchen, comes back with a ticket. "Four—that's a hundred bucks!" She sounds as excited as if she'd won the entire amount.

"Big deal," Greg says, but Roz puts the ticket on the table. She looks pleased and a little smug. A warning bell goes off in his head—_uh oh, something is definitely up_. Even though Sarah's receipts didn't reveal anything out of the ordinary, he knows she and Roz conspire together in some way, and he wants every single detail on exactly how, why, when, where, who and what.

"Got plans for that money," he says. Roz resumes her spot next to him and pops an olive in her mouth.

"Yup," she says as she chews.

"Care to share your splurge?" He knows she won't tell the truth, but he has to ask or she'll figure he's up to something. Well, of course she already _knows_ that, but he wants to hide the intensity of his need to find out the truth.

"Day trip to the spa," Roz says. She's bit too casual with the lie, though he gives her props for the attempt. He doesn't say anything more so he won't tip her off to the fact that he knows she's lying. Normally he wouldn't hesitate to grill her, but he's also afraid he'll push her away.

"I'm not lying," Roz says. She sounds amused.

"Oh, I believe you," he says, doing his best to sound sincere.

"No you don't, but that's okay." She takes another olive and savors it. "You'll see. Sare and I will come back with mani-pedis and our skin all nice and glowy, and new haircuts and everything."

"'Glowy'? You'll look like one of those chemical sticks you break to make it work. I'll be able to read in bed by the light you give off." He pauses. "Why would you want a new haircut? The one you've got is just fine. If it ain't broke, et cetera."

She chuckles and smacks his hand lightly when he tries to steal an onion ring. "We should make you come with us."

"No way," he says, alarmed at the thought. "I'm a _man_, baby. My skin isn't supposed to glow. I like my wrinkles and baggy jowls just the way they are."

Roz turns her head and gives him a thorough visual inspection. Her gaze glints with amusement and an edge of lust he finds reassuring. "You look good to me."

"For an old guy," he says.

"Who says you're old? Anyway, I happen to like silver and ginger hair and a few lines," she says.

"_Ginger?_ I'll have you know what's left of it is chestnut," he says, as he pretends to be outraged. Roz laughs.

"Chestnut. I see. My mistake." She tucks a lock behind his ear. "You need it cut though. I like it long, but it'll start falling in your eyes pretty soon. You need to see Gordy this weekend."

He grunts and snitches her onion ring. She takes a bite out of his pizza.

Eventually they've stuffed themselves. Roz takes everything to the kitchen and packs it away. When she returns she pulls the afghan from the back of the couch and drapes it over her legs, reclaims her spot and takes his hand in hers.

As predicted, she doesn't even make it through the first quarter. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder as her breath grows slow and deep. He can feel the faint, steady pulse of her heartbeat, the way she relaxes into him without hesitation, and knows a moment of fierce possessiveness he's never felt for anyone, not even Stacy. Slowly he frees his hand and slips his arm around her, cradles her hip. It stays there for the whole game, until the end. He wakes her gently. "C'mon, Scooter. We're not crashing on the couch tonight."

He lets her take the bathroom first. Unlike most of the women he's known, she doesn't spend an eternity to get ready for bed, so he doesn't mind a wait now and then. When his turn comes he pees, washes his hands, brushes his teeth and splashes a little water on his face, towels off and emerges to find his wife curled up in bed with a book. She is clad in her favorite flannel nightgown, the one with little green flowers and matching ribbon on the yoke. He has never before slept with any woman who would voluntarily wear a garment like this one, but on her somehow it looks good. She is in truth his Cotton Temptress, a title he bestowed on her as a joke that's now become a compliment.

He pulls back the covers and climbs into bed, a less arduous process than previously because of the new muscle in his thigh. Roz looks up from her book as he settles in to face her; she smiles at him, a little drowsy, her expression one of welcome. It strikes him anew that it's something akin to a miracle that she cares for him the way she does after his casual cruelties to her, when he's wounded her deeply. He brings the covers up and relaxes with a sigh.

"Hurting today?" she asks quietly.

"Not too much. What are you reading?"

"Wallace Stevens. I heard part of a poem on NPR this morning and it caught my ear, so I went to the library and found it." She flips to a bookmark and pauses in the act of opening the page. "Would . . . would you like to hear it?"

It shames him that she hesitates. During their honeymoon they'd read to each other for hours and enjoyed every moment. Now she's afraid he'll smack her down. He nods and pats the spot next to him. Her smile widens a little. She moves closer so that they almost touch, but she still has room for the book. The lamplight plays over her exposed skin, picks out the last of the summer's coppery glints in her sable hair. She starts to read; her soft, dark voice shapes the words, brings them to life.

_One must have a mind of winter  
>To regard the frost and the boughs<br>Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; _

_And have been cold a long time  
>To behold the junipers shagged with ice,<br>The spruces rough in the distant glitter_

_Of the January sun; and not to think  
>Of any misery in the sound of the wind,<br>In the sound of a few leaves,_

_Which is the sound of the land  
>Full of the same wind<br>That is blowing in the same bare place_

_For the listener, who listens in the snow,  
>And, nothing himself, beholds<br>Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is._

When she's done they are both silent for a while. Greg turns over the words in his mind, but what really catches his notice is the profound unease behind the possible interpretation. Without thought he inclines his head, so that his cheek brushes hers. "Discuss," he says finally. She laughs soft and sweet, the aural equivalent of a drop of raw honey, dark and warm in the frozen vista she's conjured up with the poem.

"I don't think there's any one way to see this," she says, and stretches a bit. "You can feel the cold in the words, see the landscape the poet's standing in."

He is about to answer her when he notices the line of her cleavage, half-hidden by the soft folds of flannel, lace and ribbon. The contrast of textures, that faint shadow between her breasts, both divert his attention from the icy apprehension inside him. He moves down just a bit and touches his tongue to the little valley.

"Mmm . . ." Her back arches slightly and her nipples harden. To his relief she closes the book and sets it aside. "You don't really want to talk about this, do you?" She sounds resigned but not unhappy. Her hands come up to hold his head, slide down to his shoulders. "That feels so good," she whispers. When he looks at her she watches him, a steady, honest regard he both loves and fears. It takes in all of him and leaves nothing out, but there's no condemnation, no judgment. Her fingers give him a gentle massage.

"Please," she says. "Let's continue the discussion. I'm enjoying this." Her smile widens, shows off her dimples. When he kisses first one, then the other she closes her eyes on a soft, helpless moan that drives him crazy.

Slowly they move together, take their time and enjoy the journey. He bunches her nightgown above her belly to reveal her lean thighs and the dark curls below her flat abdomen; he nudges her knees apart gently as he eases into place. Roz smiles up at him, a delighted gleam in her moss-dark eyes, and Greg knows it's partly because they don't need a pillow to prop his right thigh now. He slips his fingers into her warm wet cleft and finds the hot little heart there. Her gasp, the way her hands hold him as he works her, all push his own response into overdrive. When he slides inside her it's a feeling much like the one he experienced earlier, coming home. He knows a sense of peace and rightness he cannot explain, and for once he doesn't want to.

He is careful to bring her with him, takes pride in the way she arches under his touch and her slender body shakes, her name on his lips. He buries his face in her thick soft hair when orgasm fills him, breathes in the scent of her, warm and musky. He feels her pulse flutter like a wild bird's wings. She puts her hands on his back, rubs slowly up and down, moves them to his ass and cups his cheeks. He knows he has buns of yogurt, but she seems to like them anyway. She pinches him gently and he fights a smile. "Fresh," he growls, just to make her laugh.

"I love you," she says after a while.

"Why?" He doesn't dare look at her. She strokes the small of his back, a slow, comforting circle. He expects a simple 'because I do' or 'I don't know' or even 'don't ask stupid questions', something Stacy had said to him once.

"You have something inside you," she says after a while. "It's a part of you that stayed the same in spite of every terrible thing you've gone through. It calls me. It makes me want to be with you all the time. I don't want to be anywhere else." She turns toward him a bit more and kisses him, a sweet, lengthy kiss that holds no pity or sympathy or even gentleness. By the end he tingles in places he thought would be incapable of sensation for the next twenty-four hours.

"You're the first person who's ever wanted to be with me," she says, so softly he can barely hear her even in the quiet room. "I love you for that too."

"The Russian told you to say all this." He has to ask, no matter the consequence, because he has to know she does this on her own—that it's not some homework assignment. Roz bumps her nose against his.

"It's all me, _amante_," she says. Then she yawns. Greg can't help but chuckle.

"Go to sleep," he says, and knows she'll understand what he really means.

She puts her hand to his cheek for a moment. "Sleep well," she says. Then she reaches back to switch off the table lamp and brings the covers up over them. Within minutes she's down for the count, her descent fast enough to tell him how tired she really is.

For some time he holds her in his arms and listens to her breathe, aware his right thigh is a little sore from the exercise. He takes great pride in that fact.


	6. Chapter 6

_October 28th_

Roz gave her hair a final little nervous pat and left the bathroom. As expected Greg was awake. He lay in their bed and watched her, his gaze filled with a mixture of suspicion and something like apprehension. "What are you really up to?" he said. His tone was harsh but she heard the anxiety under it.

"A day at the spa," she said, and gave in to the urge to tease him just a little. "And maybe . . . a little something else."

"_What?_" he demanded. "What the hell are you planning?"

"Well . . ." She leaned in slowly and kissed him. "We're going out to breakfast too," she said against his lips, and laughed when he growled. The gleam of reluctant humor in his vivid eyes told her she'd won this round though.

"Fine. Lie to me," he said, and put his hand behind her head as he returned her kiss. She enjoyed his touch.

"I'm not," she said in perfect honesty.

"The definition of lying includes by omission." He gave her a hard stare. "Tell me the rest."

We'll be back this evening. Have a good day at work," she said, and bussed the end of his nose. "See you later, _amante_."

She could practically feel him calculate his next move as she left the house and headed over to Sarah's. His paranoia both amused and exasperated her; they were supposed to work on trust together. Then she remembered his story of how he'd gotten the crater in his thigh, and her annoyance faded. If he had trouble with secrets, it was understandable.

Sarah was up of course, and ready to go. She gave Roz a hug. "This is fun! Neither one of us has had a day out in ages."

They'd agreed to take Minnie Lou. "She needs a good run, and it'll make it easier for Greg to track us," Sarah had said with a twinkle in her eye. So Roz climbed into the passenger seat and sat back. She felt excited and apprehensive at the same time.

"What do we do if he finds out what we're up to?" she said.

"Disavow all knowledge of our actions and take our cyanide capsules, of course," Sarah said with a laugh. "C'mon, sis. The worst he'll do is hide his old bathrobe and tease the hell out of us until Christmas." She reached down to turn on the radio. "Here, find some good tunes. We're off to have a day bein' spoiled along with our skulduggery, let's enjoy it."

They arrived at the restaurant just as most of the locals were headed off to work, so they found good seats right away. Once they'd filled their plates from the buffet, Sarah got down to business. "Depending on when we leave here, we have an hour or so before our appointment," she said. "The spa is about a block from the fabric store. I suggest we park there and walk down."

"That's not much of a plan," Roz pointed out. "If Greg's spying on us he'll know what we're up to fairly quickly."

"Oh, we want him to know what we're doing," Sarah said with a smile.

"We do?"

"Sure. We want him to think we're making new dresses for you and me, and maybe a comforter or two, all of which we can do. No point in wasting the opportunity. We'll just get the flannel and the thread for his new robe while we're at it and no one's the wiser."

Roz tilted her head. "You're too good at this. That makes me nervous."

Sarah laughed. "Don't worry, I use my dark arts for benign purposes now." She sipped her tea. "Think of all the fun we'll have today, sis. I can't wait to have someone massage the knots out of my shoulders and make my feet look something like feet should look."

"At least the manicurist won't have quite as much work when she gets to me," Roz joked. Sarah's expression softened. She reached out and took Roz's damaged hand in hers.

"You've never complained about this, not once," she said. "I know it bothers you, but to the people who love you it doesn't matter."

"I know." Roz squeezed Sarah's hand gently. "That's helped more than you'll ever realize."

"Good." Sarah's smile widened. "Now let's head off to do a little innocent browsing before we spend a day becoming more beautiful than we are now."

"Speak for yourself," Roz said with a rueful smile. Sarah shook her head.

"You're not allowed to talk like that today." She gave Roz's hand a gentle pat and stood. "Let's go."

Calico Corners was housed in an old warehouse that had been converted into store space. The owners had renovated with care; they'd left the narrow-plank hardwood floors and exposed rafter beams in place, and modernized everything else. The first floor was dedicated to fabric, notions and accessories; the second floor had tables and quilting frames set up with comfortable chairs for demonstrations, classes, group meetings and quilting bees. The entire place had a warm, pleasant buzz of positive energy and peacefulness. Encouraged, Roz pulled the pattern out of her back pocket. Together she and Sarah studied it.

"His old robe is dark grey," Roz said. "I was thinking something a little lighter but in the same color family, you know how he is about change. He wouldn't be too happy with either of us if it was shocking blue with day-glo orange stripes."

Sarah chuckled. "'Happy' isn't the word I'd use," she said. "Maybe soft grey with white and another dark color or two in the plaid? Let's see what they have."

Ten minutes later, as Roz stood undecided in front of two bolts of fabric, Sarah said quietly "two o'clock."

"Hmm?"

"Two o'clock. Don't turn your head, use your peripheral vision."

Roz obeyed. Three rows over it was just possible to see a green and white baseball cap with the word 'Gravedigger' emblazoned on the front. It sat atop her husband's shaggy head, accompanied by sunglasses and a pair of mini-binoculars. "Oh, good _grief_," she whispered, and tried not to laugh.

"I think this grey plaid would make a great comforter lining, don't you?" Sarah said in a normal tone. Her sea-green eyes gleamed with amusement. "Greg will like it."

"It's perfect," Roz agreed, and tucked the bolt under her arm.

"This is cute," Sarah said. She indicated a soft black flannel figured with little white skulls. They had tiny pink bows atop their heads. "A new nightgown perhaps?"

"With black ribbon and lace," Roz said. She took that one too. "Let's put these on the cutting table and go look at those _sari_ silks you were talking about at breakfast."

As they moved to the front of the store Sarah whispered "He's walking parallel to us."

They left the bolts with the clerk and went to the silk section. Roz immediately fell in love with everything there. "So beautiful," she said. She touched a dark red silk scattered with little spangles of old-gold foil, delighted by the sleek softness.

"This is gorgeous." Sarah held up an olive-green silk covered with block-printed leaves, accented with a narrow yellow-green stripe on the edge of the fabric. "We could make a fabulous dress."

"I'd love to go out with Greg wearing that," Roz said, and meant it.

They ended up taking two more bolts to the table—the green silk and a light turquoise-blue raw silk with a subtle gold thread woven through it that Sarah couldn't do without.

"We'll have Kris help us make the dresses," Sarah said as they had their fabrics cut. 'She's worked with silk before."

"Is he still there?" Roz murmured. Sarah nodded.

"Yup."

"You know, I'd really like to take my time and look over some of the hairstyle books at the salon after we're done at the spa," Roz said. She made sure her voice was clear and strong. "I'm not quite sure what I'd like just yet."

"He's gone," Sarah said a few moments later. "I think he's hiding out in the parking lot. Ten bucks says he drove your truck."

Sure enough, Roz's pickup sat half-hidden behind a row of SUVs. Greg watched them approach. "He's not trying very hard, is he?" Roz said.

"He wants us to know we have no secrets from him," Sarah said. She moved to the driver's side window and rapped on it. "Good morning Greg!" she said loudly. He rolled down the window.

"Well, imagine meeting you here," he said in a fake-hearty voice. "Funny coincidence, isn't it."

"Yeah, so is driving my truck," Roz said. She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you have a good reason for that."

"Barbarella's out of gas," he said, blue eyes wide. Roz hid a smile. She'd given him a twenty the day before because he'd claimed he was broke and had gotten home on fumes.

"I see," Sarah said. "Unfortunately, as much as we'd love to shoot the breeze with you, we're due at the spa."

"Why keep up this pretense?" Greg said. "You're just courting a bad end. You know where liars go, Sarah Jane Corbett."

"As a matter of fact, yes I do," Sarah said sweetly. "The one I'm thinking of goes to the next town over in his wife's truck and spies on her and her best friend. You and I will talk about this later, I hope you understand that. Trust issues are at the top of the list in the category of items to explore in-depth." She put a hand on Roz's arm and ignored Greg's apprehensive expression. "C'mon, sis. We've got a day full of pampering waiting for us."

"A likely story!" Greg yelled after them as they walked to Sarah's truck. "You'd both better come out all glowy and spiffed up!"

They both laughed as they entered the spa.

[H]

Greg won't admit he left town with his tail between his legs. Of course he waited a couple of hours, then sauntered into the spa and tried to check on them, to no avail. The clerk was polite but unrelenting. She even had the temerity to throw him out when she caught him in the massage area for the second time.

So here he is, home from an endless and miserable afternoon of utter boredom coupled with resentment at Sarah's threat—no, actually it was a promise, they'll talk about this incident for sure, he knows it—and free-floating anxiety as he wonders when the hell his wife will decide to return. Of course he knows that thought isn't fair, it isn't like she spends any of her evenings out on the town; she goes to dinner maybe once every couple of months with Sarah and Kris. But he just feels cranky about this.

He heats up a random choice of leftovers in the microwave, dumps them on a plate, grabs a fork and settles in to watch tv. There isn't much on but he finally finds something on TCM, _Twenty Million Years To Earth_. At least it's a Ray Harryhausen movie, the only thing it's got going for it. He wishes Roz watched it with him. She'd mock the terrible Italian accents and enjoy the scenery shot in Rome at the Coliseum, a place she's always wanted to visit. They hadn't done so on their honeymoon, they ran out of time before they had a chance to explore Rome, but that just meant they'd have to return, a pleasant prospect for both of them.

After the movie ends he checks through the sports channels and puts on a game, any game, but it doesn't hold his interest. He could fire up the PlayStation, go online, play the piano, but none of those ideas holds any juice either.

He's about to give up and get the candidate files out of his backpack when he hears the kitchen door open, the familiar jingle of keys placed on the rack and Roz's voice as she speaks to Hellboy, who has come out of the bedroom to greet her. "Hey babe, you two guys hold down the fort okay while I was gone?" She comes into the living room and turns on a table lamp. Anything Greg was going to say dries up in his throat when he gets a good look at her.

Her hair is no longer a blunt-cut bob tamed into smoothness. The basic shape is the same, but now it's layered all over, the thick locks shortened. Freed of the weight of length, they wave just a bit but aren't quite allowed to curl. The result is an artful disarray that makes the most of her high cheekbones, thick, slightly arched brows and long straight nose. It looks like she wears a cap of soft feathers, her natural sable augmented with copper and bronze highlights. Her makeup is elegant without being overdone, suited to her brunette coloring; it reveals the austere, patrician beauty that was always there somehow, overshadowed by a too-severe haircut and inadequate enhancement. She smiles at him so that her dimples flash, and in that moment he wants her. Now his jeans are far too tight, and it's not just from all the food he ate.

"Hello," she says, her gaze full of laughter. "Enjoy your day?"

"What-what did you do to your hair?" He wants to run his fingers through it, feel the cropped silky strands.

"I didn't do anything. The stylist cut it. It—it looks good?" She sounds shy and a little anxious.

"Don't tell me you didn't look in the mirror when she was done."

Roz shakes her head. "Just a glimpse when she showed me how to use the brush and blow dryer to shape it. I . . . I didn't want to look too much."

The bulge in his jeans grows bigger. "That's a new scarf." She has a length of twisted hunter-green silk knotted loosely about her neck over her brown jacket. It brings out the color of her eyes.

"Sarah bought it for me." She runs her slender fingers over it and strokes the soft material. Greg wishes she did that to him instead. "Have you had dinner?"

"Leftovers. Come here," he says quietly. Roz looks nervous but she does as he asks. She takes a seat next to him, perched on the edge of the couch. She even smells good; a faint scent of sandalwood and amber musk wafts over as she sits down. "Tell me why you didn't want to look."

She fiddles with a button on her jacket. "I don't know. It seemed . . . vain."

"Roz." When she looks up, startled at his use of her name, he puts a finger under her chin. "It never occurred to you that you have something to be vain about?"

Her eyes widen just a little in genuine surprise as her lips part. They're a soft pomegranate red, so he takes the invitation and leans forward to kiss her. When it ends she looks down at his mouth and smiles, reaches over and takes a tissue from the box on the coffee table, dabs at his lips. "You look good in this color," she says, to tease him. The ache in his loins increases.

"Let's see if you're glowy all over," he says. Her smile widens.

Later, when they're both pleasantly exhausted and lie together in the darkness, she says "Why did you follow us this morning?"

Greg plays with a strand of her hair. "You mean why did I spy on you."

"Okay, why did you spy on us?"

"Because it was fun."

"And?" She shifts in his embrace a little, to face him.

"Because you and Sarah are holding out on me."

Now it's her turn to sigh. Her breath fans his collarbone. "Did you ever stop to think that Christmas is only a couple of months away—"

"Bite your tongue," he says in mock outrage. "It's not even Halloween yet!"

"—and we're working on some projects for presents?"

He considers her words. "That's truthful but not all-inclusive."

"I'm not telling you everything. Live with it." There's a laugh in her voice.

"I _hate_ secrets," he whines. She puts her hand to his cheek, a reassuring touch.

"Why? Is it because of what happened to your leg?"

"One incident among many." He feels the old bitterness well up.

"I understand. Just remember that not all secrets are bad or destructive." She strokes his skin gently. "Do you really think I'd hurt you that way?"

"You went away today and came back . . . different." He knows it's ridiculous, and yet he still says it.

"Yes I did." She kisses the join of his neck and shoulder. "Does that bother you?"

"No . . ." He brings her a little closer.

"_Amante_ . . ." She is silent for a few moments. "The secrets I'm keeping won't hurt you." Greg closes his eyes. _Trust. It always circles back to that, dammit. _"I'm not asking you to blindly believe me. I'm asking you to wait and see." She kisses him again and moves her hand to his chest. "Okay?"

Patience is not his strong suit and she knows it, but it's still not an unreasonable request. He'll try to honor it. And he'll still do his best to figure out what they're up to; to his mind they're not mutually exclusive activities. "'kay," he says finally, and lets her slip into sleep before he follows her.


	7. Chapter 7

_October 31st_

Sarah had just finished cleaning up her inbox when she heard the front door bang open. She smiled and called out "I'm in the office!" before she returned to her task. A few moments later Greg appeared in the doorway. He didn't come in, just stood there and surveyed her with a frown.

"You got your hair cut too," he said.

"Good morning, and yes I did." She'd opted for a shorter length that left more of her neck exposed, a style that created the usual nimbus of curls. "What do you think?"

"It's different." He didn't sound enthused; in fact his observation had a distinct ring of accusation. Sarah sent off an email and tipped her chair back to look at him. He avoided her gaze.

"All right, we can talk about that," she said mildly. "Why don't you get some coffee first? There's fresh pumpkin bread in the basket on the counter and some cream cheese spread in the fridge, help yourself. I'll be right here waiting."

Greg gave her a look that told her he wasn't thrilled by the last part of that statement, but he headed off to the kitchen. Sarah opened another email and readied herself for the session to come.

In due course Greg was ensconced at his old desk. He munched the first of several slices of bread spread with lavish amounts of cream cheese, and watched her with a wariness that told her she should expect difficulties with him. "Do you consider 'different' to be a bad thing?" she said.

"Define 'bad'," Greg said.

"I'd rather hear what you think it is," Sarah said.

"So you're desperate enough to stoop to traditional analysis. That has to be a new low." Greg took a huge bite of bread, nearly half a slice. Sarah shook her head.

"You'll choke if you keep that up," she said, but couldn't help a smile. "Okay, point taken. My definition of bad is something that will hurt me or the people I love, or people in general." She gave him a quizzical look. "Do you agree?" Greg grunted and picked up a second slice of bread. Sarah persevered. "I know you have a definition because you keep applying it to what happened."

"Don't know why you're asking me then."

Sarah said nothing for a few moments, gathering her thoughts. "You've heard the story of Sinbad the sailor," she said finally.

"Saw the Popeye cartoon when I was a kid," Greg said. "Never liked the singer though."

"Not talking about either one. I know you've read the _Arabian Nights_," Sarah said. "There's no way you could pass that up."

"You're so sure about that."

"Yeah, I am. A book of stories filled with fighting, torture, blood, treachery, magic and gold? And later on you discovered the sex as well. You probably had a copy stashed under your bed." Sarah tipped her chair back. "All that, and Blythe told me you had the book. So do you remember the story of Sinbad and the genie?" Greg's derisive snort plainly indicated she should cut to the chase. "Okay then, just in case you somehow missed it: Sinbad found a jeweled bottle of great beauty. He opened it and out came a three hundred foot tall genie, ready to kill him. So Sinbad used the genie's vanity against him and informed him he was too big to fit back into the bottle. The genie took the dare and ended up trapped once more until, as Sinbad advised him, he learned some better manners." Sarah sipped the tea she'd brought in with her. "I think your definition of what's bad is an enormous genie that's escaped its prison. It's time you trapped it in its bottle until it learns to behave itself."

"You've been hanging around the Russian too long. What a bunch of Jungian artsy-fartsy bullshit." Greg sounded contemptuous. Sarah understood him well enough by now to know he only attempted to draw blood when he was genuinely afraid of what the other person said. She also knew he respected honesty, so she gave him the truth as she saw it.

"When you're a child growing up in a family where there's no unconditional love, or what love you're given is unreliable, you think that's what love is." She chose her next words with care. "You love someone and bad things happen. So it stands to reason once you leave home, you've already decided if you love anyone else, the inevitable will occur."

That hit home. Greg's eyes widened before he looked away. He said nothing however, so Sarah kept going. "There's a dichotomy within you," she said quietly. "You crave love, the kind with plenty of wildness and intensity and deep passionate romance. You have that within you to give as well, because you're carved deep and you hold an incredible amount of emotion inside you, so much that it scares you. The problem is you've never had anyone give you that sort of love, so you don't know that it can be all of that, wild and intense and passionate, and reliable too. You don't know that you can be loved without hindrance, that love can be as life-giving and warm and steady as the sunrise every morning. So when it comes into your life, you don't know how to do anything except what you've always done, which is to expect bad things to happen and as a consequence, have that love snatched away."

Greg didn't speak at first. "Projecting," he said at last.

"That's likely to some extent," Sarah admitted without hesitation. "You and I have both gone through rough times in our childhood and youth, and we have similar capacities within us. But I'm a step or two ahead of you, because I've figured out we heal by loving and being loved, which involves trust. I'm not perfect at implementing that knowledge by any means, but I also know you don't heal if you create a secret society of one, obsessing over the only other person you might find worthy to admit into your tiny little circle. You're dooming yourself to loneliness."

Greg remained silent. Sarah decided to continue. "The basis of the love you think you want is the you and me against the world, all-or-nothing mindset, where you'll never fail each other. Except you'll both fail each other, and you'll do it more than once. It's inevitable because you're imperfect human beings. And that's what has you so terrified of loving Roz, of trusting her, and letting her love and trust you in return. That's the bad thing that always happens, the three hundred foot genie that escapes to destroy everything—either you fail her, or she fails you." She leaned forward. "All or nothing love is dangerous, son. It takes you to a very dark place and leaves you there stranded, with no way to get out. You know exactly what I'm talkin' about."

She could tell from the closed-off expression Greg wore that she'd hit the mark, so she said nothing more, just sipped her tepid tea and glanced out the window.

"So that's it," Greg said after a long silence. "No more golden words of wisdom for the pitiful wretch you condescend to lecture."

"You are not pitiful nor a wretch, not by a very long shot. I'm not condescending to lecture, I'm telling the truth to myself as much as to you."

Again silence fell. After a while Sarah picked up the mandolin she kept handy by the desk, tuned it a bit and began to play a tune she'd worked on all week. She liked how her fingers found the notes, added simple chords to augment the melody. To her satisfaction she saw Greg relax a bit. He took another slice of pumpkin bread from the plate and munched as he listening.

"O'Carolan," he said eventually. "It figures you'd learn his music."

"He wrote great melodies," Sarah said, and switched over to 'Beauty in Tears'.

"All or nothing," Greg said after she'd gone through the tune twice. Sarah could hear the consideration in his tone.

"You shift out of that mindset by finding common ground, a way to communicate and learn trustworthiness, both yours and the other person's," Sarah said quietly. "You and Roz share a love of the written word. You can use it to strengthen your bond, your friendship. It can help you understand each other when all other forms of communication fail, and they will fail at some point." She strummed a chord. "For Gene and me it's music."

Greg tilted his head toward her, an unspoken invitation to continue.

"We have our share of arguments and disagreements as you well know. Over the years we've found the most sincere method of apology or explanation is to play for the other person, or find a song that has meaning for both of us regarding the issue we're having trouble with." Sarah picked the chord, enjoying the mandolin's soft overtones. "We're stronger because of it. It makes the experience of failure easier to live with. I don't expect Gene to be perfect, and he doesn't expect it of me either."

Another lengthy silence fell, but it wasn't as tense as the ones before. Then Greg said very quietly, "Is it worth it?"

Sarah heard what he'd really said: _am I worth it?_ "Yes," she said when she was sure she could keep her voice steady. "Of course."

Greg didn't say anything in return, but she felt him absorb her reply, analyze it. Then he took the last slice of bread, glanced at his watch and got to his feet. "Gonna be late for work," he said.

"Okay. I'll see you at the dance tonight," Sarah said, accepting his tacit indication that he'd taken in all he could for the moment. He nodded, and then he was gone.

[H]

"Welcome to the fifth annual Halloween dance!"

Greg rolls his eyes and downs a slug of beer. This will be a long evening. The kids have already done the face painting and bobbing for apples and all the other silliness associated with the holiday; they're off to watch a movie, some Disney epic no doubt, while the adults enjoy their own fun.

The band has a ringer on drums, since Singh's at work; it's a friend of Jay's. He's okay, not a talent like Singh, but he can keep a decent beat.

Gene counts them off and they launch into 'Monster Mash', with Gene on vocals. The dance floor is already crowded. Most people are dressed in costume, and not the lame store-bought kind; that surprises Greg, he didn't think the local populace had it in them. There's a Harry Potter in Quidditch robes, a Jack Sparrow pirate, Marti and Rob Butterman as hamburger and fries respectively, a Roman centurion, a Snickers candy bar, and the usual assortment of witches, vampires and ghosts, but almost all homemade outfits. And everyone wants to dance.

So they play their way through 'Purple People Eater', 'The Witch Doctor', 'I Put A Spell On You' (one of their favorites, and Gene does it full justice), the Ghostbusters theme, and a couple of slow tunes. Greg gets a huge kick out of watching the burger and fries snuggled together as they cop feels. He'll never see a combo meal in the same way again.

Roz flits around to restock the buffet and herd children back into the movie room. She has on a white cotton peasant blouse, its full sleeves gathered at her wrists. It's paired with a tea-length black skirt and the hunter-green silk scarf she'd worn home from her day out, wrapped around her slender waist. She also wears a half-mask of feathers and lace. He's seen it before; evidently Kris made it for her a few years ago as a gift. It resides on the top shelf of the closet in a box, packed with care. It's beautiful work; soft black feathers make up the mask itself, with a fitted lace framework that covers her nose and the top of her cheeks, and stylized openings for her eyes; there's a little crown of peacock feathers to tremble and float above her head. It's hard to tell where the mask ends and her hair begins. She's also wearing the diamond studs he gave her for Christmas. They flash and glitter as she moves, a counterpoint to the swirl of her full skirt. With her dark coloring she looks like a gypsy woman, mysterious and distant . . . until she comes up to him between songs and offers him a little paper plate full of cookies. The sight of her engagement and wedding rings in full view on her left hand is reassuring somehow.

"You guys sound great," she whispers. Her feathers brush his cheek, a subtle caress. She wears the sandalwood and amber musk perfume she bought at the spa; it's just as soft as the touch of the feathers, faint and alluring.

The band takes their break. Greg sits at a table away from everyone else, to be thwarted in his aloneness by Sarah. She has on a scarlet sequined top over leopard-print capris; her curls are tied up in a bandeau which has little cat ears on it. Several gold bangle bracelets grace her left wrist. She plops down next to him. "Nice work," she says. "Everyone's having fun." She munches a cookie from the plate she brought with her. "I'm spelling you for a couple of songs so you can dance with your girl."

It's news to him, but he shrugs. "'kay."

Sarah dusts her fingers. "If you want to learn how to exist outside the all or nothing paradigm," she says softly, "if you want to learn how to love and allow someone to love you, this is where you begin, son." Then she turns her head and smiles at him. Behind an outrageous amount of black mascara, liner and blue eye shadow, her gaze holds affection, understanding and compassion in equal amounts. With that she rises and heads off in Gene's direction, just as Roz sits down next to him.

"How's it going?" she asks, and for what he thinks is probably the first time, he really hears the 'I love you' in her voice when she speaks. The shock of the realization makes him speak before he considers his words.

"Dance with me later," he says. Roz looks surprised, then immensely pleased.

"All right," she says. Her hand finds his in a firm clasp. It occurs to him that he sits here with this exotic creature, who is his wife and yet someone else entirely, and maybe exploration of the stranger is part of a move outside all or nothing too. It's a heady thought, a little daunting but still worth a try.

When the break is over, Sarah takes his place at the keyboard. Roz gets to her feet. She still holds his hand as the music starts. It's a tune Greg hasn't heard before. He glances at Gene, who gives him a mild look as they move from the intro to the main melody.

"The man is tall, mad mean and good lookin'/and he's got me in his eye," Sarah sings, a throaty purr in her voice. "When he looks at me I go weak at the knees/got me goin' like no other guy . . ."

Roz slips an arm around his waist as they begin to sway together. Up close her eyes gleam through the frame of lace and feathers, full of laughter and secrets.

"'Cause he's my big bad handsome man, yeah/he's got me in the palm of his hand/he's the devil divine, I'm so glad that he's mine/'cause he's my big bad handsome man . . ."

"You told them to play this," he says, but it doesn't come out as an accusation, it's more like laughter. Roz's hand slides down to cup his ass cheek gently.

"You bet I did," she says. A dimple flashes briefly in her cheek.

"The music he plays, the way he moves me and sways/rocks me to the core," Sarah sings, and sends them a smile. "When he sings in my ear he makes me shiver and leer/he leaves me wanting more and more . . ."

"Naughty girl," he growls in Roz's ear, and does laugh this time when she deliberately pushes her slim hip into his. Her skirt envelops his legs for a moment; he can feel the heat of her body.

The next tune is a slow dance. They move with care around the other couples on the dance floor. Greg's pleased that he's able to do more than stand in place now. Roz holds him close, her cheek pressed lightly to his shoulder. She hums a little, barely more than a breath of sound, and her arms tighten just a bit; she's happy, and he caused it. A strange feeling fills him at the knowledge, a mixture of pride, enjoyment and that edge of apprehension that always comes with anything positive. But it's much less in evidence tonight at least.

The dance ends at ten because it's a weeknight, with kids headed to school and parents to work the next morning. As the band packs up, Greg beckons Roz over. "Get a plate of cookies, we'll stop by and give Singh a treat," he tells her. Roz gives him a look—she knows by now he's got an ulterior motive for any random acts of kindness he might decide to perform—but does as he asks without comment.

The medical center is dead quiet. They find Singh in his office; he listens to Bessie Smith while he sorts through the piles of junk on his desk. His face brightens as they come through the door. "Hey you two," he says. "Happy Halloween."

"Trick or treat," Roz says with a smile. She puts the plate of cookies atop a stack of files. Greg takes another file folder out of his jacket and slaps it next to the plate.

"Don't need this," he says, and enjoys Singh's stricken look for a couple of seconds before he finishes the sentence. "You're already in."

The import of his words takes a moment to register. Then Singh chooses a cookie and tips back his chair. "Okay, boss," he says, and takes a big bite.

_'Monster Mash,' Bobby Pickett_

_'The Witch Doctor,' David Seville_

_'I Put A Spell On You,' Screamin' Jay Hawkins_

_'Ghostbusters,' Ray Parker Jr._

_'Big Bad Handsome Man,' Imelda May_


	8. Chapter 8

_November 1st_

Jason pushed the book aside and rested his head on his fist. He always had a tough time with essays, and the final question on his homework paper had eluded his grasp for the last half hour. He felt like he ran in circles. _I'm too stupid to do this right,_ he thought, and growled the way he'd heard Doctor House do on occasion.

"Hey Jason." Gene perched on the table corner. "Problems?"

"I can't get this damn—I mean dumb essay written." He kept his gaze lowered out of habit; it was always better not to look an adult in the eye, especially after the use of bad language.

"You've been at it for the last two hours. How about a break? Let's work the bag for a while."

Jason brightened at the suggestion. He put down his pen. "Yeah, okay."

The walk to the barn was accomplished in companionable silence. Jason liked that about Gene; the older man never pushed him to talk, and when he did speak Gene listened and waited for him to finish before he replied. He took Jason seriously, as did Sarah and Gibbs, and House and Roz.

It was warm inside the barn. Gene had evidently been at work on something. Jason looked around as he hung up his jacket. "I have a project started," Gene said. "After we get some work in I'll show it to you."

Jason liked bag work. It was a great way to get out frustrations and anger. While the bullying had calmed down considerably at school with the removal of Ferguson, there were other problems that cropped up in its place—namely, Jason's lack of education. He was behind the other kids in nearly every subject, and while he made good progress, he felt the difficulty his handicap caused. He studied hard, put in hours every day, and he barely held his own.

"Okay," Gene said after ten minutes or so. "Now that you've got that out of your system, take a breather and then we'll work on technique." He went to the cube fridge and got out two bottles of water, handed one to Jason.

"I hate being so far behind everyone else at school," Jason said after he'd gotten his breath back. He took another sip of water. "I have to work twice as hard just to keep up."

"Are you having trouble in any subject in particular?" Gene sat down beside him and stretched out his long legs. Jason relaxed somewhat. The matter-of-fact way his complaint was received was still new and a little confusing, but he enjoyed it all the same. It was great to be treated like he was someone who mattered.

"English," he said with reluctance. He knew it was Mandy's favorite and a subject in which she excelled, a fact he found annoying and impressive at the same time.

"Yeah, me too," Gene said. "I had a terrible time with that one."

"I like to read," Jason said. "But the words . . . half the time I—I don't know what they mean or how to spell them, so when I go to look them up . . ."

"You need some help expanding your vocabulary and spelling skills," Gene said.

"I'm not gonna have Mandy teach me. No way." She tended to get bossy now and then and he felt compelled to rebel, which always ended up badly. He didn't like to fight with her, it made both of them miserable.

"No, that wouldn't be a good idea." Uncle Gene sipped his water. "Let me talk to Sarah. We'll get something set up. If the school doesn't have a tutor available, maybe we can work on it with you." He paused. "There's something else Sarah and I would like to talk to you about." The pleasant sense of relaxation vanished. Jason swallowed hard and tried not to flinch. They would send him away finally . . . Gene spoke again. "Jason, it's all right. You're not going anywhere, don't worry. Didn't mean to spook you, sorry."

"It's okay," Jason muttered.

"No, I was clumsy and scared you, that was stupid of me." Gene shook his head. "Sarah would kick my ass for that."

"Really, it's okay," Jason said, reassured by Gene's sincerity. "What did you want to tell me?"

"Sarah and me . . ." Gene hesitated. "We were wondering how you'd feel about us adopting you."

This time the words hit him full force. Jason turned his face to Gene's and found the older man watched him, his dark eyes steady and calm. "You . . ." Jason's mouth was dry, he had no spit. "You want . . . _me_?"

"Well of course we do," Gene said. He smiled just a little. "But you have a say in this too. Do you think you'd want to be part of our family?"

"My dad and mom, they're still alive," Jason said after a moment. "Don't they have to be dead for you to adopt me?"

"No, it can be done if the biological parents are still living," Gene said. "It won't be easy, but I think we can show the court that your parents weren't taking care of you and your home life was pretty tough." He sipped his water. "You wouldn't have to change your name though," he said slowly. "That would be up to you."

Jason thought about it. Jason Goldman . . . he liked the sound of that. He liked the idea of having Gene and Sarah as his parents even more. Unbidden came the memory of Sarah, battered and bruised in her hospital bed, as she gave him her new barn coat. He'd nearly killed her, and she returned his act of thievery with compassion and genuine caring. He still didn't quite understand all the reasons why, but he knew it was the right choice to have her as his mother. And beyond that, he liked Gene and Sarah. They were kind, funny, smart, and best of all, they apparently liked him too, well enough to want him around permanently. "I'd like to have Goldman as my last name," he said. Gene nodded and looked away.

"Okay. Thanks," he said after a time, and cleared his throat. "C'mon, let's throw a few punches."

Jason enjoyed their boxing lessons. Gene was a good teacher, patient, calm and understanding. He corrected mistakes with a sense of humor and worked just as hard as Jason did, and apparently had a good time with it all. Jason enjoyed the quiet strength and reassurance of the older man; he knew he had nothing to fear from him.

"Let's take a look at my project," Gene said when they'd finally called it quits after an hour. He handed Jason a towel and took another for himself, wiped the sweat from his face as he walked over to a makeshift table. There were curved pieces of wood held together with c-clamps, what appeared to be the top of some kind of container, and a large piece of dark green velvet fabric, folded neatly and set aside.

"What is it?" Jason asked, his curiosity piqued.

"It's an old mandolin case," Uncle Gene said. "When I bought Sarah's instrument this came with it, but it was in bad shape. So I thought I'd take it apart, fix what needs fixing and give it to her for Christmas." He touched the curved wood. "I could use a little help."

"_Sick_," Jason said, and remembered his manners. "I mean, I'd like to help."

"Chronic." Gene flashed him a grin. "Let's head back to the house. Sarah's probably wondering where the heck we disappeared to. She'll have supper ready too. Don't know about you but I'm starvin'."

They arrived a short time later to find Sarah in the kitchen. She stirred a large pot of chili, and a pan of cornbread waited on the counter.

"Supper's ready," she said with a smile. "You two get washed up, you look like you've been balin' hay all day."

This was the time of day Jason loved best at Gene and Sarah's. He was allowed to eat his fill, and that never ceased to amaze him; but he was also encouraged to join the conversation, which was not malicious gossip or diatribes about neighbors, nor was it an endless stream of criticism and cruel jabs aimed at him. They talked about everything under the sun, and Jason's contribution was respected. He'd never experienced anything like it.

"I used the last of the venison to make tonight's dinner," Sarah said as she watched Jason take a third helping.

"Regular season starts November nineteenth," Gene said. "I'm not gonna try bow hunting again this year. What a fiasco."

"What's a fiasco?" Jason asked.

"A disaster," Gene said. He looked annoyed—not at Jason, but at the memory the word conjured up. "I damn near spent a fortune in arrows and only got a third of 'em back. And Hutch almost put a shot through my leg."

"We can wait," Sarah said. "Prof's coming in for Thanksgiving. I bet he'd love to go hunting with you."

"Aw _jeez_," Gene said, but a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. He sat back, hands folded over his middle. "Change of subject."

Sarah got to her feet and began to collect the supper dishes. "Okay."

"Jason says he's okay with us adopting him."

Jason watched Sarah's face with some anxiety. He shouldn't have worried. For a moment she just stood there. Then she put everything down and came over to him.

"May I touch you?" she asked softly. Jason nodded; he knew she wouldn't hurt him. She stood next to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm so glad," she said, "so _glad_," and gave him a gentle squeeze.

"I'd like to change my name too," Jason said. "Gene said it was up to me, and I say yeah."

"Okay," Sarah said. She sounded like she was about to cry, but when she sat down next to him her expression held nothing but happiness. "That's wonderful, Jay. We'd be honored."

"When do we find out what the court says?" Jason asked.

"It's going to take some time," Sarah said. "We have to prove that your parents shouldn't have you. That will probably mean you have to give testimony and be examined, physically and mentally. But we'll be there every step of the way. You won't be alone."

It was dark when Jason and Gene walked the lane over to the Gibbs farm. Jason liked the sight of the yellow light in the kitchen door window; it meant he'd be warm and protected for another night. "Do you think Gibbs will ask me to leave now?" he said.

"I don't think so. I'm sure he'll be fine with you staying until the adoption is approved." Gene sounded confident. "We'll talk to him together though, okay?"

"Okay," Jason said, and enjoyed the still-unfamiliar sense of reassurance Gene's words gave him.

"'Course Jason can stay," Gibbs said when Gene asked him. "It's gonna take some time to untangle all that red tape. Don't mind havin' him around, he's a good boy." He patted Jason's shoulder. "Go on and get ready for bed. You can come down and watch some tv for a while if you want."

Jason climbed the stairs and listened to the sound of Gibbs and Gene as they talked. Their voices held no anger, no drunken rage or wild, incoherent ramblings; they spoke in an easy, relaxed cadence, one friend to another. The sound of it eased his apprehension like nothing else could, unless it was Sarah's music. He went to his room, dumped his backpack and headed for the bathroom, ready to clean up and go downstairs to watch tv. Maybe Gene would stay for a while. _It'll be like this all the time,_ Jason thought, _once the Goldmans adopt me._ He paused as he pulled his sweater over his head, struck by the knowledge. A fierce wave of longing filled him. _I want it to be like this forever. _

He spent the next two hours curled up on the couch between Gene and Gibbs as they watched back-to-back episodes of _Ice Road Truckers_ He listened to the older men talk and laugh, thoroughly content to be right where he was.


	9. Chapter 9

_November 3rd_

Sarah finished tuning the mandolin, found the chord she wanted and began to strum chords softly. She could hear the words in her head, ready to come out. She summoned her courage and began to sing them.

_there's a young man that I know, his age is twenty-one_

_comes from down in southern Colorado _

_just out of the service and he's lookin' for his fun_

_someday soon, goin' with him, someday soon_

_my parents cannot stand him 'cause he rides the rodeo _

_my father says that he will leave me cryin'_

_I would follow him right down the toughest road I know _

Her voice faded, but she continued to play the chords. Eventually she picked up the lyric again.

_So blow you old blue northern, blow my love to me_

_he's drivin' in tonight from California_

_he loves his damned old rodeo as much as he loves me _

Once again her voice failed. She paused, strummed softly, then gave up. She stared at the firelight in the crystal window of the woodstove and struggled with a myriad of emotions and memories. Outside, she knew, snow fell silent and steady, to cover the last of the green grass and fallen leaves of gold and scarlet. The knowledge tightened her throat even more.

"Is this a private party or can anyone crash?" Greg stood in the doorway. His tone was light and mocking, but his gaze was keen. Sarah gestured at the empty chair. He came in, his eyes on her as he sat down and put his feet on the blotter. "Never knew you liked Judy Collins. Or is it Lynn Anderson?" he said. It was more accusation than statement. Sarah strummed the mandolin and said nothing. "They both sang all the verses though."

The memory flooded back, vivid, violent, the surprise and pain of betrayal nearly as sharp even now as it had been then. Sarah stopped, and the mandolin fell silent.

"What is it?" Greg's voice was sharp with anxiety.

"Something that happened a long time ago," she said finally, when she could speak. "My ghosts are hauntin' me today, that's all."

"Do tell," Greg said. He leaned back, hands folded across his middle. "I thought you laid most of them to rest."

"Now and then they surprise me," Sarah said. "Wholeness, not perfection, son." She looked for the right words to begin the story. "When I was sixteen, a friend of mine gave me an album."

"_Who Knows Where the Time Goes_," Greg said. Sarah nodded.

"It was the first one I ever owned. It was beat to hell, but it still played pretty well. I had to hide it because—because I wasn't allowed . . . we didn't listen to secular music in my grandmother's house, except for the old Irish songs she liked." She cradled the mandolin, took comfort in its solid strength, the smell of polish and wood and strings. "I about wore it out trying to learn the songs by ear on my old Sears Roebuck guitar. So of course Grandma caught me one afternoon. It probably pissed her off even more because I used her old Motorola turntable to play the record, though I didn't have a choice if I wanted to listen to the album. Anyway, that damn thing was dedicated to hymns only, and she'd made sure I knew it early on."

"Let me guess," Greg said when she fell silent. "You got kicked out."

Sarah couldn't help but laugh a little. "At the end I walked on my own, she didn't have to push me through the door." She fingered a chord change. "First she broke the record. Then she took my guitar and chopped it up with the hatchet she kept for firewood. And then she made me watch while she burned it in the stove. Just to rub it in, she informed me that was the same fate waiting for me in Hell for singing songs about fornication and lust."

"Your family certainly had issues with the use of fire as their preferred method for destruction of personal property," Greg said after a few moments. This time Sarah did laugh, and felt the tightness ease somewhat.

"No kiddin'," she said. "I've tamed my likely genetic predisposition. I own a house with fireplaces and stoves."

Greg snorted. "So what's the deal now?" She heard the concern under the mockery.

"It's complicated," she said after a time, and picked the chord under her fingers. "This was the first song I ever sang at the university coffeehouse. Gene told me later he'd heard me and it got him interested. It . . . sort of became one of our songs, when we were courtin'."

"Rodeo," Greg said. "You resent his work that much."

Sarah finished the chord and chose another. "At times, yes," she said. "Resentment might be too strong a word. Resignation comes closer. I wish he could stay here with me more. But he loves what he does. I won't ask him to give that up too, along with working on the front lines." She glanced out the window at the snowfall. "I get so lonely for him sometimes."

"You don't trust him enough to ask," Greg said. Sarah paused, surprised.

"No," she said. "I know he loves me as much as he loves his work. I can live with that." She strummed another chord. "It's a compromise and that's fine most of the time."

"You are such a bullshit liar," Greg said. He sounded disgusted. "You wouldn't be sitting here wound up and almost in tears if you really were okay with his working away from home."

"It's snowing, I woke up with the song playin' in my head this morning, I'm lonely, and I'm PMSing," Sarah said. "The perfect storm. This is my way of dealing with it."

"You and Gunney are nowhere near ready to be mommy and daddy," Greg said after a moment. Sarah smiled a little.

"I don't think anyone ever is. Jason told you," she said.

"He's walking six inches off the ground, so it was an obvious conclusion." Greg gave her a level stare. "You don't have any idea how insanely difficult it will be to get the kid's parents to agree to this. They'll do their best to extort everything they can think of out of you two and leave you dangling while they laugh their asses off at your gullibility. Meanwhile you're getting the spawn's hopes up."

"It could happen that way," Sarah said. "But the Brambles' right to Jason ended when he was placed in foster care by court order. Jason's parents weren't married and his father didn't live with his mother on a regular basis. That means his mother has to agree to the adoption and we'll probably have to let his father know, but Gibbs is the one who has official legal custody of Jason through the foster care system. He's the one who will give us ultimate permission."

"You'll still need a surrender from the birth parents," Greg said. Sarah tilted her head as amusement won out over other emotions for the moment.

"You looked this up online, didn't you?"

"Hah. I'm insulted at the blatant and cruel insinuation that I don't know everything." Greg wiggled his fingers. "It's a lot of trouble to go to just to have another patient in the house to work on."

Sarah strummed a chord. "I've told you before, Jason isn't a substitute for you, son. If you didn't already have a mother I'd adopt you too." She let the truth of her words shine through with strength and simple emotion. Greg looked away, but not before Sarah caught the flash of surprise, followed closely by pleasure and confusion.

"You're that desperate for another Goldman in the world."

"That's not why we'd do it and you know it."

"Yeah, because I'm just that amazing a human being," he said finally.

"Of course you are." She switched to another song, 'Bird on a Wire', a favorite of long standing.

[H]

He listens to the words and Sarah's soft clear voice over the sweet chords of the mandolin, and hears the powerful affection she bears him as it shines through the music. She understands and accepts him, all of him; possibly she's the only person who ever has or ever will aside from his wife. The unconditional willingness to see him as he is, to take what he's able to offer and not demand more than he can give—it's the same gentle benison he's recognized for some time now, an impossible blessing he never thought to know in his life. He is continually astonished at the wholeness she finds in him, in the way he thinks and feels, reasons and reacts; she sees the best and worst and enfolds all in her embrace without hesitation.

_I saw a man a beggar leaning on his crutch_

_he said to me 'why do you ask for so much'_

_there was a woman leaning in her door_

_she said 'why not why not ask for more?'_

_like a bird on the wire_

_like a drunk in a midnight choir_

_I have tried in my way to be free _

"An apt summing up," he says when the song is done. "You're pretty good on that cigar box."

"Thanks," she says, and flashes him the smile that she rarely uses with anyone else. "You've got some time before work. Why not grab the six-string and pick a few with me? You know, keep your shrink company for an hour or so. It's nice cheap therapy for us both."

When he returns with the Martin, there's a mug of hot coffee ready and a plate of icebox cookies warm from the oven. He settles in, grabs a cookie and tunes up the guitar while he munches, then begins to sift through chords until he finds the ones he wants. When he starts to play Sarah's face brightens with recognition. Without hesitation she follows him through the intro of 'Blue Moon of Kentucky'. They start it off slow, and Sarah sings it in that high lonesome way of hers, plain and simple. It always makes his heart ache a little, though of course he'd never tell her, because he knows it comes from her own life and the pain she's endured. Then they pick up the tempo and race to the end, and laugh as they get there more or less together.

"Call Gunney," Greg says sometime later, as he collects his lunch preparatory to leaving. Sarah tucks a bottle of water in his backpack and watches as he puts his pea coat on.

"I will. Where are your gloves?" She comes forward and begins to button his coat. "And your scarf? It's cold out there."

He is about to growl at her when he hears the 'I love you' in her words. It's not the same as Roz's; this is more maternal of course, but it's just as strong. He pauses, then rolls his eyes. "_Jeez,_ Mom," he whines. It's a weak riposte, but Sarah laughs and finishes the last button, then gives him a brief gentle hug.

"Drive carefully," she says. When he goes down the drive and looks in his rear view mirror she stands in the doorway, wrapped in a quilted throw over her big Aran sweater and jeans, to see him down the lane in safety as the snow falls in silence.

_'Some Day Soon,' Lynn Anderson_

_'Bird On A Wire,' Leonard Cohen_


	10. Chapter 10

_November 11th_

Sarah turned up the sound on her playlist and tapped her slipper-clad foot against the leg of the desk. In another hour or so everyone would gather for a meeting of the clinic board, to figure out what was done and what needed to be finished. Greg's practice was close to ready at long last; the lab equipment needed to be installed and the back kitchen area needed a good clean, but everything else was ready to go, or very nearly so.

"So smile for a while and let's be jolly/Love shouldn't be so melancholy/Come along and share the good times while we can,'" she sang with Lynn Anderson, just as a message came in from Laynie. Sarah opened it. Her smile faded as she read the brief note. Immediately she activated the webcam and clicked on Laynie's link. Her friend was there. Sarah took one look and sat straight up as her heart slammed into her throat. "What the hell _happened?_" she gasped.

"Before you freak out completely, I'm all right," Laynie said quickly. "Sarah, calm down. It looks worse than it really is."

"And what does _that_ mean?" Sarah snapped.

"Uh—sore wrist, a couple of cuts and a bruise or two," Laynie said.

"A broken wrist, a black eye and ten stitches on your shoulder that I can see, that's not worse?" Sarah heard her voice rise and couldn't stop it.

"Sare, it's _okay_. I just got a little too close to the action—"

"Too close? What do you mean, too close? Who was keeping an eye on things? Who was driving? Why wasn't someone there to tell you to back off?" Sarah leaned forward. "You were out there by yourself and you rolled the truck, didn't you? _Dammit _Laynie!"

"Yeah, I rolled it," Laynie said. She sounded defensive now. After a moment one corner of her mouth quirked up. "'I beg your pardon/I never promised you a rose garden,'" she sang along with the music. Sarah stared at her as she fought with fear, exasperation and reluctant amusement.

"Damn smartass," she said finally. "You'd better tell me everything that happened to get you half-killed, you idiot." Her fear won out for a moment.

"I'm okay, _really_," Laynie said quickly. "Sare, I got it on video. The biggest November outbreak in Okie in god knows how many years, and I _got_ it! Take a look, I sent you a clip with the best stuff." She grinned and winced, but excitement shone from her bruised face. "Seriously, this is epic!"

Sarah checked her inbox and found the attachment. "It better be," she muttered. "You could have been killed—"

"Oh, just shut up and watch the vid!"

Sarah opened the file and began to watch. Ten seconds in her eyes widened. "Oh my _god_," she whispered. A cold chill of fear and excitement crawled up her spine. In front of her was an enormous wall cloud extended almost to the ground, with rapid rotation and a nearly invisible vortex that pulled up huge amounts of dirt from the plowed field below it. "This is _crazy_! This is something you'd see in springtime, not—not—" She groped for words. "You got the readings?"

"Of course." Laynie sounded insulted.

"Where the hell was this?"

"Just outside Tipton. Turn up the volume. That thing was growlin' like a damn wild hog."

Sarah shivered as a powerful bass rumble issued from the speakers. Instinctively she pulled in on herself a bit and folded her arms. "How—how big was the hail?"

"Most were golf balls, but there were some close to tennis ball. I packed a bunch of them, they're at the lab in the freezer. I labeled 'em so the Prick wouldn't think they were ice cubes." Laynie leaned forward. "Check out that rotation! It's freakin' _nuts_!"

"What the hell are you looking at?" Greg said from the doorway. Sarah motioned him to come in but didn't her eyes off the monitor.

"How much did you shoot?"

"Twelve hours, Sare! I shot right up till it got too dark to go on, and all of it's incredible footage."

"Look at that damn meso rotate like it's on speed," Sarah said in wonderment. "Multiple vortices, oh my _god,_ Laynie!"

"It wasn't all that well organized at first but by the time it crossed the highway, holy cow." Laynie managed a slight smile, though it was clear she tried not to pull on her bruises. "I got great footage of it from one hundred yards. I'm betting EF3, maybe even EF4."

Greg yanked the chair from his old desk and pulled it up close. "You were in those storms yesterday?" Sarah heard the rough concern under the casual question and smiled to herself.

"Hey Greg! Yeah. All the major networks want this," Laynie said. "I've had six solid offers to pick up the license so far and it's all good money."

"Son of a bitch," Sarah said as she noticed the road for the first time. "Son of a goddamn _bitch_, Laynie! You know those access roads are a damn deathtrap, especially after it rains!"

"It was the only way to get close. I just wasn't fast enough when the downdraft hit," Laynie said. "Beat the hell out of the truck with hail."

"From the looks of you the truck wasn't the only thing that got beat," Greg said. "What happened to you?"

"I'm fine," Laynie said. "Just a little run-in with the RFD, that's all. The gust front was incredible."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Translation for non-weather geeks?"

Sarah took him up on his request, though she knew he understood more than he let on. "Rear flank downdraft," she said as she studied inflow patterns. "Caused by negative buoyancy—um, due to vertical pressure perturbations and changing vorticity gradients, the incoming air can push the subsiding air down or out. It tends to happen when dryer and cooler air is injected into the cloud, it's partially due to a hydrostatic effect. The air in RFDs is usually warm and dry, but not always. It also creates what's called a clear slot, you can often see it wrap around the funnel or move away from it in the shape of a horseshoe. We still don't understand all the mechanics, but everyone's tryin' to figure it out because RFDs seem to be essential in tornadogenesis." She caught Greg's amused glance and realized she'd gone into lecture mode. "Well, they do."

"Yeah, Fujita's recycling hypothesis," Laynie chimed in. Sarah nodded.

"Exactly."

Greg spared both of them a sardonic look. "So you two really went to school for this stuff and not just for the free sex," he said. "I thought it was all bullshit."

"Nope, we're bona fide geeks," Laynie said. "Proud of it too. Sooner Tornado Research is the result of all that nerdy obsession in school, and it's starting to pay off big time."

"You got chased, didn't you?" Sarah said suddenly. "Dammit, you had a funnel chase you down an access road with potholes the size of swimming pools and you tried to outrun it in the truck!" She smacked the desk as her fear returned, along with a burst of anger. "_LAYNIE_!"

"It didn't chase me!" Laynie said, clearly hurt. "Come on, I'm not a rookie! I just—um—" She looked sheepish. "I just wasn't fast enough when the funnel changed course slightly."

"You were outside the vehicle filming and you didn't have anyone with you. It doesn't get more rookie than that." Sarah sat up straight. "I wanna talk to Rick right now."

"The Prick isn't here," Laynie said.

"Of course not. Fine, then I'm comin' out there," Sarah said. "Gene can drive me down to Newark and someone can pick me up in Dallas or Tulsa, I'll call and let you know."

"Sare, no! Everything's all right, I promise!"

"Everything is very _not_ all right," Sarah snapped. "Rick's been pushin' you around and not doing his job and you didn't want to say anything. I knew he was an idiot and still kept him on even after you told me you didn't like chasing with him, which makes a bad situation even worse. Enough is enough. You could have been killed. Time for some changes."

"So what, you're gonna fire me?" Laynie said.

"Of course not, you doof! We're gonna fire HIM." Sarah took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. "Let me talk to Gene and we'll get it figured out."

"Talk to Gene about what?" Her husband stood in the doorway. As she turned to him he got a clear look at the computer monitor. His smile disappeared. "Holy _shit_, Laynie! What happened?"

He sat through the explanation and the video in silence, his lean face impassive. At the end he said quietly, "We have a board meeting for the next hour or so but after that we'll get back to you, darlin'."

"Okay. I'm not going anywhere," Laynie said in a feeble attempt at humor. "Talk some sense into your wife, would you?"

"No promises," Gene said, but he smiled a little when he said it.

"Yeah, that'll work," Greg said. Sarah gave him a light thump on the leg with thumb and forefinger.

"No comments from the peanut gallery," she said. "Let's get the meeting started."

[H]

Greg takes quick stock of the situation. The group that sits around the dining room table is a subdued one.

"What's going on?" Will wants to know from the speakerphone. "Nobody's talking."

"Sorry," Sarah says. "Had a slight difficulty that's unrelated to the clinic. Where's Roz?" She directs this question at Greg.

"My lovely wife is working at the clinic as we speak," he says. "Getting things ready for the lab equipment, apparently."

"It's coming in tomorrow," Will affirms. "What's left on the renovation?"

Greg looks over at Sarah. She tugs on a curl, lost in thought. He gives her a thump on the leg, the same kind she delivered to him. "Hey."

"Hmm? Oh . . . sorry," she says. "Um . . . painting's done, I finished the kitchen yesterday. We need a few things like a coffeemaker and a microwave, some shelves and a couple of chairs, but that's . . . that's easily taken care of."

The talk moves to personnel but Greg ignores it and watches Sarah. She's worried, and he thinks if she was by herself she'd be up to pace and yank on her hair.

"Doctor House," Gene says with exaggerated politeness, "we were discussing your team."

"Discuss away," he says, his eyes still on Sarah.

"Your input would be welcome," Gene says dryly.

"I have one on the team. Singh said he'd do it," Greg says. "Still shopping for a couple more."

"How about your executive secretary?" Will says. "Any news there?"

"According to the grand poobah she's on the hook but hasn't been reeled in yet."

"Time's a wastin'," Will reminds everyone with unnecessary emphasis. "How many patient applicants do you have so far?"

"Several hundred," Sarah says, surprising Greg. "Clients won't be a problem. We're on the map with the health insurance companies as well, so that shouldn't be a difficulty." She pauses. "I'll talk to Colleen tonight, see if I can get an answer out of her."

"You're nowhere near capable of haggling with anyone," he says sharply. "Let someone else deal with her."

"Okay," she says, "the job's all yours," and gives him a look. _You asked for it,_ that look says, and indeed he has.

"So will we be ready to open on Black Monday?" Will says, and that is the question of the hour. Suddenly that date is a hell of a lot closer than it really ought to be, and with the prospect of Sarah possibly headed off to the hinterlands it doesn't seem like a good idea at all. But that's his nerves talking. They'll have to take the plunge sooner or later if this isn't going to be a pile of wasted money and time laid at his door. He has enough failures to his name, he doesn't want this endeavor added to the list.

"Yeah," Greg says, and the room falls silent. Now Sarah looks at him. Her fingers are free of curls, and her attention is his completely. Her hand rests on his for a moment, warm and steady.

"Good," she says.

"Yeah, all right," Will says, and his enthusiasm is palpable. Gene nods and smiles a little.

The next thing Greg knows, he's got a cold beer in hand. So do Sarah and Gene, and Will says "Damn, I miss out on all the good stuff!"

It's later on, after Sarah's talked to Laynie, that Greg asks her "How long will you be out west?" They're congregated around the fireplace, with Sarah seated at Gene's feet, her back against his long legs.

"A few days," Sarah says. "Gene's takin' me to Newark early tomorrow." She sips her ginger beer and stares at the fire. "Haven't been back there since just after we got married."

Greg notes she didn't say 'back home'. "What if you have to stay longer?"

"I won't." The note of finality in Sarah's voice does not bode well for the Prick. "We need to find someone who's gonna help Laynie and not take advantage of her good nature."

"You mean she's too nice to stand up to jerks," Greg says.

"No, she's strong and knows how to deal with idiots in general. It's the ones who give her a good line that she has trouble with." Sarah sighs. "It's a pain in the ass being a nice person in this world. You're outnumbered ten to one by creeps who are cleverly disguised as divine children of God."

Gene chuckles and puts his hand to her cheek, strokes her with his thumb. Sarah sighs again. "Goin' back to good old Harper Valley. Nothin' but a bunch a goddamn hypocrites," she says under her breath. It's then Greg understands the last thing she wants to do is return to Oklahoma and face the ghosts of her past. But since she's who she is, she'll do what she has to and deal with the fallout.

As he gets ready to go home a bit later, Sarah comes to him. "Say happy birthday to your wife for me," she says with a slight smile. Greg pauses in the act of putting on his coat.

"Sure," he says. Sarah shakes her head.

"You either forgot or you didn't know," she says wryly, but there is no condemnation in her tone. "Don't worry about it."

"Wasn't planning to," he says with elaborate casualness while he sorts through a stack of damage-repair strategies.

"You are anyway," Sarah says, still in that same dry but affectionate way. She puts a hand on his arm for a moment. "Give her what she really wants."

"And that would be . . . ?"

"Some undivided attention," Sarah says softly, and leans up to kiss his cheek. "Drive safe, son."

He thinks about that while he drives home, after he's made a quick stop at the grocery store. The whole 'a few days' thing bothers him, because he knows how easily it can stretch to more. He wants Sarah here when the clinic opens, not somewhere in the sticks. He won't think too deeply about why that's so, but it is all the same.

Roz is home, her truck pulled up in front of the house. When he comes into the kitchen she's there, to put away some leftovers while Hellboy keeps her company, his furry self curled up on one of the padded kitchen chairs. With a flourish Greg puts the bakery box on the counter. Roz hesitates.

"What's this?" she says, her surprise evident.

"Thought we'd do cake for dessert tonight," he says. She comes forward but doesn't do anything else. "Open it," he says, impatient with her hesitation. After a long look at him she does as he tells her. Her face is the picture of surprise and then embarrassment and delight when she sees the simple sheet cake with a few scrolls of colored buttercream around the edges. There's no message—it's just a blank he found at the grocery's in-store bakery extras cooler—but she seems to be as pleased as if he'd bought one of Rick's best efforts.

"There's more," he says, and struggles to hide his nervousness. Roz glances up at him but says nothing. "You can ask me to play three songs, anything you like. At least I'll try to play them if I know the—"

"Thank you," her soft voice cuts through his babble. She comes to him then, slips her arms around him and leans up to give him a kiss. It's no chaste peck either. When it ends she rests her head on his shoulder. He brings his arms up around her, rubs her back, amazed at her unequivocal acceptance of his pitiful attempt to honor her birthday. No remonstrations, lectures, recriminations, blame; just simple enjoyment.

They take enormous slices of chocolate cake into the living room and sit together at the piano. But it isn't cake Roz wants. After two big forkfuls of not-bad-for-day-old dessert she says "Song please."

Greg makes a run up and down the keys, enjoys the feel of the ivories under his fingers. "Your wish is my command, oh Cotton Temptress."

"Can you play 'I'll Be Seeing You'?"

He looks at her, surprised. "Planning on leaving me?"

"It was one of Nana's favorites. I'd hear her singing it while she was ironing or washing dishes, she loved that song." Roz sets her plate aside and folds her hands in her lap like a little girl on best behavior. "All right?"

"We aim to please," he says, and starts at the bass end. He gives it the Liberace treatment, with plenty of flourishes and arpeggios and other silliness. Then he launches into the melody. As he plays he feels Roz draw close, her delight plain. He puts plenty of feeling into the song just for her, and finds it's actually fun. No one has ever asked him to play for them as a gift; pride fills him at her happiness in this ephemeral present he can create with his hands and knowledge and talent, made of sound and air and the more costly, rare and hidden ingredient of deep emotion.

"I'll find in the morning sun/and when the night is new/I'll be looking at the moon/but I'll be seeing you,'" he sings, and hears Roz whisper the words under her breath as he ends with rolling swells and a tender little reiteration of the melody, just for her. When the song is done she kisses him, a lengthy process that leaves them both shaken but thrilled.

"Thank you, that was beautiful. Nana would have loved it. I did."

"I don't know that I've got another request in me after that," he jokes.

"That's all right," she says with a gleam in her green eyes, and takes his hand before she stands. "We'll save them for another day. I have a different sort of present in mind, _amante_."

"Guess it's my birthday then too," he says, and listens to the music of her laughter as they walk together to their bedroom.

'_Rose Garden', Lynn Anderson_

'_I'll Be Seeing You,' Sammy Fain (James Booker instrumental version)_


	11. Chapter 11

_November 13th_

Greg stares at the phone. He's been here for close to half an hour now in an attempt to dial McMurphy's number, the one Sarah gave him before she left for Oklahoma. But every time he reaches for the receiver, he can't pick it up. Maybe it's the fact that he's in his new office, where everything is still shiny, unused, unfamiliar; maybe it's because he's exactly what John House always said he was, a coward. It doesn't really matter, because the end result is the same: inaction.

He finally grabs his game and starts a new level just as Roz comes in. She's made the rounds, checked on things. As she enters the room there's an echo of that terrible moment after the fight with Wilson, when Greg called her filthy. Nothing could have been further from the truth, then or now; she looks good enough to eat, something he plans on doing later though she doesn't know it yet. She has on a dark green sweater and new jeans, and her sable hair in its new ruffled cut softens the strong angles of her features. When she comes in she sees the phone still in its base. Anyone else would have said "How's it going?" or "Any luck?" or "Why haven't you called yet?" All she does move around behind him to rest her hands lightly on his shoulders. She doesn't hold him in place or try to control him; she just offers the comfort of her presence.

He glances around the office. It's not at all like his old digs in PPTH, no expensive glass box; it's homey, with an oriental carpet on the floor and a woodstove atop on a stone hearth that's part of the original furnishings. But beyond the physical disparity there's an important difference. In those surroundings he was always alone, even with other people in the room. Here he is not.

The warmth of Roz's touch feels good and lessens his anxiety bit by bit. She massages the tight muscles, her slender fingers strong and gentle at the same time. He sets aside the game and closes his eyes, held captive as always by the still-novel sensation of someone willing to spend time with him, willing to offer affection without a requirement for anything in return.

"Everything's looking good," she says. Her cool, dark voice holds a smile. "We'll get the lab set up this week. By the time Sarah comes back we'll be ready."

"Personnel," he reminds her. His palms are sweaty. She gives him a little caress.

"Singh's ready to start work," she says. Some more of the anxiety drains away at her calm reminder. "Doctor Chase called earlier, by the way."

His mind jumps with something like gratitude to the conundrum of what to do about his ex-fellow. "He's nothing if not persistent." He hesitates, then says what's foremost in his mind. "I'd be interested in your impression."

Roz thinks about it for a few moments. "He really wants the job. But he won't beg," she says at last. "I like him. There's something different about him . . . he gets how you do things and he's okay with it."

"He's an alcoholic," Greg says. "Totally messed up in more ways than one."

"Who isn't?" Roz says simply. "You enjoy working with him anyway."

He tips his head back to look at her, a bit surprised by that insight. "How do you know?"

"I hear it in your voice," she says, and kisses his cheek. That's it. She doesn't tell him what to do, or push him to bring Chase in. He asked her opinion, she gave it and nothing more. Amazing. He can't help a grin.

"What's that for?" she says, but she looks pleased. Even upside-down it's a nice sight. He reaches up and guides her in for a kiss.

"Hiring the second team member," he says, and knows the decision is right.

He makes the call to Chase first, with Roz off in the kitchen.

"House," Chase says. There's a hint of surprise in his voice. "How are—"

"You're hired," Greg says. "You can sponge off the Goldmans till you find a place, my shrink said it was fine by her. Work starts the last Monday in November."

"What—I—" Chase is silent a moment. "Okay," he says, and it's clear he's pleased. "Well okay then."

"Make sure you're here early. There's a buttload of paperwork to fill out and you're not doing it on company time," Greg says, and hangs up.

He dials McMurphy's number before he lets himself think about it. She answers on the second ring.

"Doctor House," she says, a note of caution in her quiet voice. "How can I help you?"

"Make up your mind," he says. "And by that I mean work here."

"I didn't think you cared one way or the other," McMurphy says.

"I need an exec sec. You're the best available option."

"You mean I'm the only one," she says dryly. "I believe I mentioned how much I hate the sight of snow. And you get even more there than we do here."

"All things are relative," Greg says. "Moving to some place that's hot and sunny all year round would mean an increased risk of melanoma and drought restrictions." He leans back and attempts a casual attitude, even though she can't see him. "Living here you'd get plenty of healthy exercise and fresh air, something you nurses always like to push on your helpless victims—oops, so sorry, I mean patients."

"There can be too much of a good thing." McMurphy pauses. "Make it worth my while."

"You get to work with me, what else is there?"

"I understand you have a process that sends most sane people running from you in terror," she says. "Believe it or not, I've worked with doctors like you in the past—"

"Bite your tongue," Greg says in mock outrage, his curiosity piqued. "There's no one like me."

"—so my one perk is this: I reserve the right to call you on any bullshit you might be handing out, and you can't threaten to discipline me or kick my ass out the door."

"Now you're just taking the fun out of everything," he says. "No discipline? And I bought those hideously expensive manacles with the spikes on them with you in mind."

"That's the deal, take it or leave it," McMurphy says. "Oh, and I'm not doing the sidewalks."

"Hah," Greg says in triumph, and sits up straight. "Agreed. You'll need to find a place before the twenty-eighth."

"Come on!" McMurphy sounds both exasperated and amused. "That's only two weeks—"

"Talk to Goldman about staying at her place till you find one of your own. She's a total smother mother so she'll say yes. Work starts at nine. Be here at eight. I like my coffee strong and plenty of cherry danish wouldn't go amiss either. See you then." He hangs up as Roz comes in. She wipes her hands on a dish towel emblazoned with the logo 'keep calm and carry on'—one of Sarah's little jokes, no doubt. "Two down," he says, and waggles his brows when she blinks. "You didn't think I could do it."

"When you move, you move fast," she says, and flashes him a grin. "That leaves one team member to hire, right?"

His elation fades. He's got a stack of resumes to go through, and his main resource for this task is away for an entire week . . . Roz perches her slender hip on the corner of his desk. "If you want me to help I'm here," she says in that quiet way he's grown to enjoy. "If not, I'll leave you to it."

"Haven't had dinner yet," he reminds her.

"I'll get something from Poppi's," she says. "We can go through files together while we eat."

When she comes back he has the turntable going with Cousin Joe playing 'I'm Tore Down' in the background, and an enormous pile of resumes stacked in the middle of the blotter. Some of them have Singh's recommendations and notes, but more have come in since that time, so he's bereft of his new fellow's insight.

Roz takes it all in stride, however. While they munch pizza and drink Coke, she flips through the folders and reads their contents to him. After a few minutes Greg realizes she is a fair substitute for Sarah. Once again Roz doesn't offer her opinion unless he asks for it, but when called upon she is concise and unemotional, her analytical eye sharp, unsparing and honest. It could actually be considered something of a pleasant occupation, to sit in his own office—really his, not something granted to him by a reluctant administrator-with great pizza and cold beer at hand, as he listens to excellent music and takes advantage of his wife's intelligence while he admires her slender curves. Pleasant, even if he actually has to choose someone.

Out of the current batch of candidates they narrow it down to two. One's a young guy, fresh out of residency at Hopkins but with an impressive list of accomplishments to his name. The other's a woman with a much more modest CV.

"There's something about this one," Roz says. She indicates the woman's resume.

"The other's got more juice," Greg says.

"Yeah, he's flashier. But this woman . . . she's persistent, she's willing to admit her mistakes and she's smart." Roz took a bite of pizza. "Busted her ass to get where she is," she says around the mouthful of food. "Started in community college in a nursing program and worked her way up to medical school."

"Of course you like her," he teases. Roz takes a swig of Coke to wash down her pizza.

"That's not it," she says.

"What then?"

"I don't think the young guy would work well with you or anybody else," she says. "He's in it for himself and that's it." She taps the woman's resume. "This one became a doctor for the same reason you did, in my opinion. She wants to find out the truth."

Greg hides a smile. He picks up the resumes in either hand and growls as he slaps the folders together in a mock fight. After a moment an olive slice sails over the top of the folders and hits him on the forehead.

"Such a dork," Roz says, but she laughs when she says it.

"Your olive attacked me," Greg says. "I demand restitution."

Roz gives him a sly look full of amusement and a surprising edge of lust. "Wanna baptize the desk?" she says. Greg raises a brow.

Ten minutes later Roz sits naked on the blotter and clutches his shoulders as he drives into her. Her long legs are wrapped around him and she makes enough noise to fill every room. The sweet sounds of her enjoyment drive out the memory of how he wounded her, erase it stroke by stroke until he feels her tremble and tighten on him, to bring him to his own release. He rests his forehead against hers and basks in afterglow.

"I was going to keep a bottle of Booker's in the bottom drawer, but I think we'll just schedule something like this three times a week instead," he says when he's able to speak, and closes his eyes as Roz chuckles. Her breath ghosts over his cheek.

"Only if you get naked too," she says. "Fair's fair."

"And have the battleax or some patient come in and find their doctor _in flagrante_? Don't think so."

"Oh, so it's okay for _me_ to have my ass hanging out, but not you?" She gives him a tender little buss on the lips. "Chauvinist," she says softly.

"Your ass is worth looking at," he says, a feeble attempt to deflect her criticism.

"So's yours," she says, and reaches around to pinch a cheek. He dodges her fingers, nimble enough now with his rebuilt thigh to avoid her grab. She laughs in delight and he feels the memory of his cruelty begin to fade, replaced by joy.

"I'm gonna need a new blotter," he says when she hops down and gathers up her clothes. "You owe me."

"Do not."

"It was your idea to mess around."

"It was your idea to say yes. Buy your own blotters." She steps into her undies and the sight of her hips as they swing makes his synapses sizzle. "Just make sure they're plastic-lined or something."

"Dry erase," he says, momentarily diverted by the thought of her dimpled little cheeks decorated with schedule notes. "You'd look good in red."

After Roz gets dressed and puts dinner away in the fridge, he makes the decision to bring both candidates in for interviews. Chase and McMurphy will be here by then; while he has final say of course, their reactions along with Singh's will give him more information on who's suitable for the job. He won't let them know that, but his fellows will figure it out for themselves fairly quickly, as will his executive secretary.

He puts the record away, tucks it with care into its sleeve, as Roz comes in and hands him his pea coat. "It's late," she says. "Call them tomorrow."

"Who says I'll call them at all?" he challenges her, amused at her insight.

"How else will you decide who to choose?" she says, and shrugs into her jacket.

It's snowing when they leave—just a flurry, but it's heavy enough to leave a thin film of white on the ground. Roz takes his hand in hers. Her fingers are cold, her shortened little finger curled in a cramp—something that happens now and then. He uses the warmth of his hold to ease the spasm as they go to his car.

"Hope Sarah got to Dallas okay," Roz says as they make their way home. "Laynie said she'd call when she got in. There were big storms across Texas this morning, her flight might have been delayed."

"She'll be fine," Greg says, and winces at how terse he sounds. Roz gives his hand a gentle squeeze but says nothing more.

Half an hour later, when they're home and he's parked in front of the tv while Roz gets ready for bed, the phone rings. He grabs it and makes himself wait for the second ring before he answers. "What?" he says.

"Hey," Sarah says. She sounds tired but okay. "Made it."

"No kidding," he says. "Here's hoping you kicked the Prick out of your organization."

"Yes," she says, to surprise him. "That's it for tonight though."

"Bad flight."

"I've had better," Sarah says. "How's everything there?"

She wants to know how he is. "Hired a fellow and a secretary," he says, unable to resist the urge to brag.

"Excellent." Her approval warms him. "I'm presuming Colleen said yes. Who's the new team member?"

"Chase. He blinked those pretty blue eyes and I couldn't say no." He pauses. "You'll have a full house for that stupid holiday on Thursday."

"We'll manage," Sarah says, and her confidence reassures him. "So you've got one spot left to fill. Planning on interviewing anyone?"

"Two anyones," he says as Roz comes in and claims a spot next to him. She smells of peppermint toothpaste and lavender soap and freshly laundered flannel.

"They can stay with us," Sarah says. "It'll give your team a chance to vet them for you, which is what you were planning anyway."

"Damn, can't you leave me some subterfuge, some mystery?" he complains. "Everyone's all in my business."

"Hey, I'm the one givin' your gang a room," Sarah says.

"Yeah, whatever," he says. "Kiss Laynie for me. You know, something wet and sloppy with lots of tongue."

"Hate to disappoint you but I'm disgustingly straight." Sarah pauses. "Proud of you, son."

"So you should be," he says, and ignores the warm glow of pride deep inside. "I expect a full report after you finish kicking ass tomorrow."

"Okay." Sarah sighs softly. "Can't wait to get back home."

"Technically you already are," he points out.

"This hasn't been home for a long time. Give Roz a kiss for me, since I have to kiss Laynie. 'night."

When the call ends Greg leans over and kisses Roz's cheek. He's doing it for his own purposes, not really to accommodate Sarah's request. When he's done Roz tilts her head and regards him for a moment.

"Proud of you too," she says softly.

"Eavesdropper," he says, but that warm glow deepens.

They lie together snuggled under the covers when Roz says "Sarah's going to need help with all those people at her place."

Greg tightens his hold on her just a little and draws her closer. "You've thought up a terrible plan involving large amounts of work, no doubt."

"I'm taking Wednesday off. Why don't we spend the day there? I can get everything set up for the dinner and you could help out with the other stuff."

It's not a bad idea. "You'll con me into chopping wood or something."

"Only if you want to," she says, and he rolls his eyes at her reasonable tone. He'll be coerced into providing at least half a cord, he knows it. "We can sleep over in the barn. You could bring your guitar, maybe hold band practice." She traces a little circle around his nipple. "You know Sarah will be wiped out by the time she comes back."

"I am impervious to guilt trips," he reminds her, but he knows it's a done deal.

"Yes dear," Roz says, but there's a tremor of laughter in her words. Greg gives a gusty sigh.

"Fine," he growls. "Do your worst."

"Okay, you asked for it." Her small hand caresses his chest, then trails over his belly to take him in a firm clasp.

"That isn't what I . . ." His protest dies as she starts to work him slowly. Usually he's only good for one go per day, but this . . . By the time he's ready to let loose his heart thunders, and his entire focus is on the touch of those slender fingers. His release is awash in pleasure, sweet with an edge of pain he savors because it makes the enjoyment that much better.

"Sheets need changing," he says when he's able to speak. Roz chuckles.

"I'm not sleeping on the wet spot tonight, you are. So it doesn't matter to me," she says, cheeky as sin. She kisses him and curls up spoon-fashion behind him, her arm around him, her hand on his belly. He's been used up good and proper, and the best part of it is, he doesn't even really mind.


	12. Chapter 12

_November 23rd_

Sarah picked up her carry-on and headed out of the baggage area. Gene had called her a few minutes before to let her know he was running late and would be there in an hour or so. That meant she had time to get some breakfast and take something for her headache. Her flight to Newark hadn't been any better than the one she'd endured a week ago, only this time she was tired to the bone and well aware her stiff hip had not appreciated the uncomfortable airline seats or lack of leg room.

With a sigh she headed for the nearest newsstand. She could at least get some iced tea and a bite to eat as well as a paper to read while she waited.

It didn't take long to collect her breakfast, such as it was, and find a seat. She took a nibble of her chocolate doughnut and opened the Times, to stare at the front page without comprehension. The list of everything she had to do in the next twenty-four hours was so big she couldn't stand the thought, and yet she knew she had to face the fact that she had five guests at the house and that meant food for them, and more people besides on Thanksgiving. And she wasn't even home yet to get the first turkey in the oven or make up rooms or grocery shop . . .

_Damn that storm_, she thought with considerable weariness. Her flight on Sunday had been cancelled because of an enormous front that brought two more days of severe weather in its wake. She'd chased with Laynie during that time so it wasn't a total loss; they'd gotten some spectacular video, and she had to admit it felt good to be back on the hunt after such a long time away. But her promise to Greg was always there behind everything she did. She'd made sure she kept in touch with him, brief calls to check in and let him know her progress, as well as give him a chance to talk with her if he needed it. He sounded all right but she knew his anxiety over the clinic opening was on the rise. That in turn fed her own frustration and worry over the delay in her flight, until the weather had cleared and she'd been able to get a red-eye out of Tulsa with a connection in Memphis—twelve hours of turbulence, screaming babies on both flights and endless security checks and delays. At least now she was in the right time zone and only a few hours from home.

_I'll be up all night getting things ready for tomorrow,_ she thought. It was total martyrdom to think like that and she knew it; she'd have plenty of help, but she was too tired to push it away. Her appetite vanished. She set the doughnut aside—no great loss—and opened her tea, then turned to the back section of the paper in search of the crossword.

She was halfway through the puzzle and stuck on a really obscure clue when someone sat across from her, took the doughnut and said "You're messing around with a stupid crossword when you should be roasting turkeys and analyzing my candidates."

Sarah looked up. Greg sat across from her, his blue eyes bright. He stuffed the doughnut in, chewed a couple of times and swallowed, then stuck out a tongue coated with brown crumbs. Sarah felt a laugh rise up, her exhaustion temporarily fled. She got to her feet and found Gene next to her, his arms extended. She went into them gladly as relief and gratitude flooded through her. She buried her face in Gene's jacket. "Hey now," he said, and held her close. After a moment she lifted her head for his kiss.

"Jeez, get a room," Greg said. "But first let's find a decent breakfast. Whoever called that thing a doughnut should be jailed for perjury after they're forced to eat a dozen."

She was surprised to find Barbarella in the parking lot. Her dark beauty gleamed in the weak sunshine.

"You can lie down and take a nap on the way home," Gene said. "I brought a pillow and blanket for you."

"And some good music," Greg said. Sarah stood there for a moment. Then she nodded, too choked up to say anything.

They ended up at a diner just outside of town. Within five minutes Sarah had a cup of tea in front of her. She stirred in a little sugar and took a sip, savored the strong tannins in the cheap brew as the waitress set down platters of bacon, eggs, sausage and pancakes.

"How bad was it?" Gene asked.

"It's over," Sarah said. Greg dumped half a bottle of ketchup over his hash browns and took a huge bite.

"Mmmfrr," he mumbled. Sarah gave him a stern look, delighted at his antics.

"I am not a martyr," she said. He swallowed and slugged down some coffee.

"You were sitting there knotted up over how to deal with that stupid dinner tomorrow," he accused. "Classic Joan of Arc syndrome." He impaled a sausage on his fork and glared at her. "It never occurred to you that you could ask for help."

"I plan to," she said, and tried not to sound defensive. Greg rolled his eyes.

"'Plan to' meaning no," he said.

"Okay, that's enough," Gene said with quiet authority. "We can talk about this later. Right now we're eating breakfast." He cast a quelling look at Greg, who was about to speak. Greg bit into his sausage, defiant but silent. Sarah took Gene's free hand in hers and squeezed it.

When the meal was done both men escorted her to the car. She was settled in the back seat with care and attention, her carry-on bag and duffel put in the trunk, and then they were on their way home. Greg drove while Gene rode shotgun. Sarah closed her eyes and relaxed for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. If she could get a few hours of sleep now she'd have enough energy to get through what needed to be done.

"Knock it off," Greg said. "You yell at me all the time about this kind of behavior. Stop stewing and get some rest."

"Bossy-boots," she muttered, but her heart wasn't in it. She could feel sleep pull at her, so she gave in and let the pleasant sense of comfort and the sound of the music and intermittent conversation from the front seat carry her away.

[H]

They are an hour north of the Pennsylvania-New Jersey border when Gene says "Let's take a break and stretch our legs for a few minutes."

It's a welcome suggestion; Greg's right thigh has started to complain at the lack of movement, so he takes the next exit with a rest area sign.

Sarah doesn't wake when they stop. She's really out, snuggled under the comforter with her face hidden. "She'll be all right," Gene says. "She pushed herself too hard, so she'll be down for a while."

After a stroll around the parking lot, Greg joins Gene inside the convenience store next to the restaurant. They buy snacks and cold sodas of course; Greg resists the temptation to grab some smokes as well. There's no point, he doesn't smoke in the car anyway, but it would help him calm down a little.

He and Gunney don't talk much now. They've settled into a companionable silence as they munch chips and listen to the satellite radio station Greg chose. Once they're back on their way his phone rings. It's Roz.

"Everything's fine," she says. She sounds cheerful, if a little breathless. "All the guests are here. Poppi says if you stop by on your way home he'll send tonight's dinner with you."

"You're not doing everything by yourself?" Greg asks a little more sharply than he'd intended.

"No, I've got all kinds of help. Where are you now?"

"About two hours out."

"Okay. Can't wait till you get home," she says, and her soft voice eases his anxiety. "Our bed in the barn's ready for us and the woodstove's going so it'll be warm. See you shortly, _amante_."

"Not shortly enough," he says, and puts a lascivious growl in his words.

"Get a room," Gene laughs.

"I heard that," Roz says. "Love you," and she's gone. Greg puts his phone away, thinks of the cozy spot they've made in the barn—the old bed warm and inviting, and his woman ready to make love . . .

"Good thing I'm driving," Gene says, and gives him a grin.

[H]

Sarah woke to the sound of Little Willie John as he sang 'If I don't love ya baby/grits ain't groceries/eggs ain't poultries/and Mona Lisa was a man . . ." She sat up, aware her headache had receded but was still a presence, and she needed to pee.

"Hey," Gene said. He glanced at her in the rear view mirror. "Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty."

"Where are we?" she asked, and pushed her curls out of her face.

"Waiting outside Lou's place to pick up supper."

Sarah's heart lightened a little. At least now she wouldn't have to worry about dinner for a large group of people.

"I want you to rest when we get home," Gene said.

"I can take an hour or two," she said.

"You'll take more than that. You've been doing too much. I saw you limping in the airport parking lot. You're exhausted, your head hurts and you're planning to stay up all night."

"It's Thanksgiving tomorrow." She tried not to show her annoyance. "We have a full house—"

"It does _not_ all depend on you," Gene said quietly. "You have plenty of people around to help and you haven't asked a single one of them to do anything. You know better than this, Sarah Jane."

"I'm not going to do it all myself," Sarah snapped.

"No, just most of it," Gene said. His tone was still quiet but uncompromising. "I won't let that happen and you know it."

Sarah winced. "Sorry," she said, ashamed of her lapse. "Gene, I'm sorry. Can we talk about this when we get home? It's . . . it's been a long day."

For answer Gene reached over the back of the seat and took her hand in his as Greg returned with a stack of pizza boxes.

"There's more," he said. "I could use a little help if you two are done losing your respective cherries in the back seat. And by help I _don't_ mean you." He favored Sarah with a meaningful look before he headed back into the restaurant.

"Oh, good grief," Sarah said, exasperated. "Fine, I'll just sit right here and do _nothing_. Okay? Here's me sitting here doing nothing."

They arrived at the house in good time. Sarah saw the cars pulled into the side yard and tried not to think of what lay ahead. Even with help it would take most of the night to get everything ready.

She trailed behind Gene and Greg, duffel and carry-on in hand, and did her best to summon up some enthusiasm about her guests. Her thoughts scattered however when she walked into her house. There were people in the living room, congregated around the fireplace or the television, various drinks in hand as they sat together. A fire blazed in the grate; the atmosphere was one of conviviality and relaxation.

The next thing she saw was the dining room table. The extension was in place, as it was set for twelve people. The pull-down lamp shed its golden glow over a pristine white linen tablecloth, her best china and silverware and her Waterford crystal wineglasses, along with linen napkins folded neatly—Roz's handiwork, Sarah had seen her do them many times at Lou's place.

"Sarah, my dear. You must be absolutely knackered." Prof stood in the kitchen doorway, his tall figure swathed in a white apron. He came forward and beamed at her. "You're home at last! How are you? I understand you and the boys brought home the evening meal. Roz and I have everything ready in the kitchen to set up a buffet line, and none too soon." He enveloped her in his customary gentle embrace. "You have guests," he said quietly. "Are you up for meeting them?"

He stayed with her and conducted the conversations with unobtrusive ease, so she had to do little more than nod, smile and make a brief comment. The next thing she knew she was guided up the stairs and to her bedroom. "Sit," Gordon said, firm but kind. He deposited her in the easy chair by the fireplace.

"Thanks," she said, and tried not to sound as tired as she really was.

"You're more than welcome, my dear. Now tell me what happened in that benighted place you visited that has you so upset."

Sarah looked down at her hands. "How did you know?"

"Oh come now, how long have we been acquainted?" Gordon folded his arms and gave her a keen look. "You saw someone in your family."

She sighed. "One . . . one of my brothers."

"How bad was it?"

Sarah hesitated as she tried to decide how to answer the question. "I spent ten minutes with him, and it was like a lifetime."

"He sucker-punched you, isn't that what you Yanks say? Hit you hard even though you were probably expecting him to do just that." She nodded, unable to speak. "And so in your usual manner, to compensate you're trying to be mother to the world and take on every burden in your path because you think that gives you worth, just because someone who can't bear your happiness tried to take it away." Gordon sighed. "My dear Sarah Jane of the deceptively plain name, when will you understand you yourself are worth more than you can possibly know to those who love you? And no one can ever take that away, not by word or deed or cruel act."

Of course that brought tears to her eyes; she was too tired to maintain her composure. She got out of the chair, moved blindly in Prof's general direction, and was guided down beside him. He held her while she wept, grateful for his solid presence.

"Right then," he said when she'd calmed down once more. "Off to bed with you. Roz and I have things well in hand, you needn't worry about tomorrow. Your estimable husband and Doctor House and that handsome young fellow Chase will provide plenty of firewood, and after dinner's finished you will relax and allow the rest of us to wash up and serve the pudding." He patted her gently. "Do I make myself clear? You're not to lift a finger." Sarah nodded, worn out now. "Very good. Now if you want to talk about what happened, I'll be available. But I suggest you wait until the morning, after you've had a good lie-in. You'll have things in perspective with some sleep and a lovely breakfast." He chuckled. "Your Roz is a treasure. What a forthright and delightful young woman she is! I've enjoyed working with her today. Wonder if she'll come back to Washington with me and work in my kitchen. She'd have those squalid little underlings of mine whipped into shape in no time." He gave her a little pat and got to his feet. "Let's have your husband in here then, he's been quite worried about you."

Gene helped her undress and put on her tee shirt and sleep pants; he settled her in bed and went downstairs to bring back a plateful of food and a cold ginger beer. "I'm prescribing a mild sleeping pill for you tonight," he said as she did her best to eat something. "I want you to sleep in, and after you do get up you're letting Prof and Roz handle things. They've got dinner and taking care of everyone under control." He put his hand over hers. "Please," he said softly. Sarah took his hand in hers.

"Okay," she said. "I promise."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Thanks."

She took the pill he gave her and chose a book from the pile on her nightstand, and did her best to sink into the rhythm of the words. Half a chapter in she was still at it when Greg said from the doorway "You know, if you want to sleep you have to actually turn out the light and close your eyes."

Sarah looked at him over her reading glasses. After a moment she patted the bed. "Come visit for a minute."

Greg came into the room and stood by her for a moment. His gaze moved over her, diamond-bright. When he sat down it was to perch on the edge, poised for flight. "You haven't said what the hell happened."

"Who told you?"

"They didn't have to. You've been acting weird since you came home."

"I met my older brother in Tulsa," she said. "It didn't go well."

Greg grunted. "Must've been quite the dustup."

"I'll talk to you about it," she said. "Not—not tonight though."

He nodded. "'kay.'" He looked down at the quilt, traced a line of stitching with his finger. "The wife and I are staying here tonight, in the barn."

She read between the lines; this was an offer of help, a rare occurrence. "Thanks."

"Those people don't know you anymore," he said. "They never knew you, when it comes down to it." He got to his feet. "Sleep in or else," he said, and closed the door behind him, silent as a shadow.

Sarah was still awake when Gene came in. He shook his head at her, but he smiled a little. "Stubborn woman," he said, and peeled off his thermal shirt.

When he was in bed beside her she said "Sing for me please."

Gene settled her against him. "All right," he said in his quiet way. "Have a request?"

She shook her head and tucked her cheek against his shoulder, waiting. After a moment he began, his voice soft and gentle.

_She came to me said she knew me_

_said she'd known me a long time _

_and she spoke of being in love with every mountain she had climbed_

_and she talked of trails she'd walked up _

_far above the timberline_

_from that night on I knew I'd write songs_

_with Carolina in the pines_

Sarah closed her eyes and remembered when he'd first sung this to her—a sunny day on a hillside, the air clear and sharp and clean. Sunlight had illuminated his dark features as he played his guitar and smiled at her, his eyes as green as the trees around them.

_when the frost shows on the windows_

_and the woodstove smokes and glows_

_as the fire grows we can warm our souls_

_watching rainbows in the coals_

_and we'll talk of trails we walked up_

_far above the timberline_

_there are nights I only feel right_

_with Carolina in the pines _

He'd proposed as the bright light cascaded over them both, warm and healing. Sarah sighed and drifted off on that memory.


	13. Chapter 13

_November 25th_

It's a cold, crisp and windy morning when Greg opens his eyes. He doesn't have to look out the window to know the weather; his body tells him everything he needs to know. He's achy, stiff and sore today, though without the stabbing pain of butchered muscle and severed nerves. His right thigh still lets its presence be known, but the results are much less dramatic than he's used to, and for that he's deeply grateful.

Still, it takes him some time to get up—not as long as before, but he has to give the new muscles a chance to warm, and do some range of motion on both legs so his calves won't cramp. Hellboy supervises as he winds around Greg's legs and purrs, in eternal hope of another breakfast.

After he's able to move, a hot bath is in order. There's still nothing like a good long soak to put things as right as possible. He brings his mp3 player in with him and listens to a new album he downloaded a few days ago, plays it through several times and savors the songs.

When he finally arrives in the kitchen, Roz is long gone of course, since she's at work. But the slow cooker holds dinner, probably spaghetti sauce from the looks of it, a nice antidote to all the turkey and leftovers Sarah sent home with them the night before.

He grabs a quick breakfast of cinnamon rolls and coffee, then on a whim decides to head over to the clinic before his shift. The lab equipment and exam room furniture has been delivered and installed, which means just about everything's ready to go for Monday. Of course it'll be utter chaos for the first few weeks while everything gets sorted out, but he really doesn't mind the thought of that. Good things come out of disorder now and then.

The drive is a pleasant one, if chilly. The clinic looks good, its new paint and tidy if bare landscaping bathed in bright sunshine. There is a harvest wreath on the front door, no doubt Sarah or Roz's doing since he never would have bothered with or even thought of one. He moves slowly up the walk and uses his key to get in. He feels some pride of ownership as he enters the building.

The place looks welcoming and efficient at the same time. There are comfortable chairs everywhere, little tables with lamps but no dustcatchers or _tchotchkes_, and some nature prints on the walls. The colors are warm neutrals; vaguely Greg remembers paint chips and carpet swatches, but since none of that really matters to him, he'd left it in Sarah and Roz's capable hands and they've done him proud. He tests one of the chairs and is pleasantly surprised to find he doesn't sink down past his ability to get up easily, nor does he find he's perched on a hard surface. "Cool," he says softly, and gets up to go to the lab.

It's a thing of beauty, though he supposes most people would just see machines and counters and equipment. This is the working heart of the place though, a blessing that will make the difference between life and death for many of his patients, undoubtedly. He won't have to wait for basic tests to be sent out, and they'll have the capacity to do some of their own bloodwork. Exotic tests will still have to go through an outside lab, but he's already gotten permission to double up with Wirth's send-outs since he's set up an account with them. In fact there will be some overlap with the medical center to everyone's benefit since he's arranged to have his team do weekly clinic hours there, a way to make it up to Wirth for the theft of her doctors. He knows she's already interviewed replacements, but this way she's covered until she's got her staff back up to speed.

He closes the door on the lab and heads for his office. It already feels like home, and he grins when he sees someone's left a stack of record albums on his desk—Singh's doing, no doubt. On the top of the pile is Bill Doggett. With a little noise of approval Greg starts the turntable and puts the record on. The groove starts with a few crackles and 'Honky Tonk' begins.

While the music plays he goes into the kitchen and checks the cupboards. There's coffee there, and sugar; he finds real creamer in the fridge too. He starts a pot of good strong brew, takes his phone out of his pocket and speed-dials Chase.

"Get your ass over here," he says when the younger man answers.

"I don't know how to get there," Chase says.

"Figure it out," Greg says. "Tell McMurphy to come with you. Stop at Rick's and get some danish."

He calls Singh's place and gets Chitra. "He's in bed," she says, her voice stern. "He just came off a double shift, Greg."

"It's important." Greg puts a bit of respect in his tone to placate her.

"It better be," she grumbles, but goes off to get her husband.

"What's up, man?" Singh says. He sounds tired but okay. "Hey, I hear you found the albums. Excellent."

"I need you to come in." Greg sips his coffee.

"Okay boss," Singh says simply. "Be there in fifteen."

"Make it ten," Greg says, and hangs up.

Within half an hour everyone's there, to munch on danish and complain about the coffee. "Too strong," McMurphy's saying.

"You bitched first so you make it from now on," Greg says, and ignores her glare. "Listen up. I've got two candidates waiting to find out which one of them gets axed. I'm close to making a decision but I want your observations." He puts his feet on the desk and crosses his ankles, puts his hands behind his head and leans back. "So gimme."

Singh polishes off a danish and licks his fingers. "They're both so qualified they give me hives."

"I like Chandler better," Chase says.

"Do tell," Greg says. Chase shrugs.

"Peters thinks he's hot shit on a silver platter. Chandler doesn't. She's got the chops to do what you'll want. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty. Peters . . ." He lets the sentence dangle.

"And this is based on?" Greg grabs another danish from the box.

"Chandler went over to Gibbs's place and helped Doctor Goldman muck out a stall. I can't see Peters doing that."

"You wouldn't do it either," Greg points out. Chase rolls his eyes.

"Under the right circumstances—"

"Like the point of a gun," Greg snickers. He glances at McMurphy. She sips her coffee and watches the proceedings with those big brown eyes of hers. "Your turn."

She says nothing at first. Then, "Chandler."

"Explain," Greg says.

"Specify," McMurphy says with a slight smile.

"Hah. A Trek fan, I should have known." He looks down his nose at her. "Tell me more, T'Pring."

"Peters has an attitude. He's careful to hide it, but he's made it clear if he comes in he'll be running this place within a year and you'll be out on your ass." McMurphy sets down her cup. "His problem is he doesn't have the chops to back it up. He's a punk, and he'll always be a punk." The cold assertion in her voice is impressive; she's already a great exec sec, a real treasure in every way, and he'll have to make sure he never lets her know he knows.

"So you're choosing Chandler by default?" Chase wants to know. McMurphy shakes her head.

"She's the one. She really wants this job, and she's not worried about her position in the group or if she'll end up doing grunt work." McMurphy pauses. A fugitive twinkle lights her gaze. "She helped out in the kitchen yesterday without being asked."

"Ah," Singh says, nodding his head. Chase looks confused.

"So?"

"So she didn't have to," McMurphy says. "She could have gone out to watch football with the rest of you slugs, but she chose to help out."

"She was expected to," Greg says. "If she hadn't the other biddy hens would have ostracized her."

"That's an assumption," McMurphy says.

"Is it untrue?"

She pauses, then dips her head in recognition of his point. Greg turns to Singh. "Talk."

"Anything I say will be based on two minutes worth of observation," Singh says.

"Ever read _Blink_ by Malcolm Gladwell?"

"Yeah. Okay . . ." Singh thinks about it. "Chandler's a stone bitch. But she doesn't try to be anything else. Peters is a charmer, but he's a stone bitch too."

"What if I told you Chandler's a ringer and Peters is the one who's coming in to work on Monday?" He watches the faces around him, sees the expressions range from resignation (Chase) to mild indignation (McMurphy) to amusement (Singh), and makes his decision. "Okay, that's it. See you on Monday. Make sure your paperwork is done and be ready to wade through a stack of patient files. We need cash inflow instead of outlay to get this place solvent."

While the other two head out, Singh lingers. He leans against the doorjamb. "Ringer, huh?" he says, his tired face creased in a smile.

"Damn, you've discovered my clever plan," Greg says. "Practice tomorrow night."

"I'll be there," Singh says. "Last day for you at your old job." His smile widens to a grin. "All the nurses are scared to death you'll play one last prank they'll never forget. I primed them all night with vivid and detailed horror stories."

Greg perks up. This could make his final hours bearable. "That so?"

"Oh yeah." Singh straightens. "Don't disappoint them. And if you'd be so kind, leave the webcam at the charge desk on. I'd like to see the results later."

Greg chuckles. "Done and done."

When he's alone he changes the stack of records and picks up the receiver on the desk phone. He knows the caller ID will give the name of the clinic, of course. That little stir of pride occurs, just as it did when he entered the place. He sets it aside and calls Peters first. "Interview," he says when the younger man answers. "Be here now."

Twenty minutes later Peters strolls through the door. He takes the seat directly in front of the desk, leans back and places his hands on his flat belly, fingers steepled. He's got an open face framed by a wealth of wavy dark hair, keen grey eyes above a nose that's been broken at least once, and a square jaw. His shoulders are wide, his legs are long, and his suit is exactly the right color. The top edge of a tattoo shows just above his collar on the left side of his neck.

"Doctor House," he says. His voice is firm and clear.

"Peters," Greg says equably, and waits. Peters watches him. His overt confidence ebbs just a bit as the lack of conversation lengthens, the silence filled only by the music from the turntable.

"Don't you have some questions for me?" he ventures after another song starts.

"Nope."

Now the younger man is confused. "You—you don't?"

"Uh uh. Made up my mind."

Peters brightens at that. "Excellent! I can start on Monday."

Greg tilts his head. Peters' smile fades. "Um . . . not Monday?"

"Amazing, the assumptions one can jump to when not a word's been said to create your supposition."

"You mean you're not hiring me," Peters said slowly. "May I ask why?"

"You may ask," Greg says, and smiles. It's not a nice smile. The bewilderment in Peters' expression hardens into something like anger.

"I heard you were an insufferable asshole," he says after a moment. "Guess everyone was right."

"Guess so," Greg says. Peters gets to his feet. Without a word he turns away and strides out the door.

After Greg calls her, Chandler shows up within ten minutes. Sarah brought her in, Greg can see his shrink in the waiting room. Chandler stands in front of the desk for a moment, then perches in the chair Peters used, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight. She's on the short side, with light brown hair cut in a serviceable bob. She's no looker, but not ugly either; she's clearly on the wrong side of forty though, with lines around her eyes and mouth. Still, her gaze is steady on him as she waits for the pronouncement.

"Cat got your tongue?" he says finally.

"I was waiting for you." Her voice is quiet, clear, no-nonsense.

"Made up my mind," Greg says once more. He says nothing more. Chandler's gaze doesn't leave his. He sits back and watches her. Again the silence lengthens, but she doesn't do anything. "You're free to go," he says at last.

"Give me a chance," she says after a moment. There's a light in her eyes now, a challenge to his decision.

"Why should I? You've got a crappy education, you're too old—"

"So this is about a community college nurse becoming a doctor? That's such bullshit," she says. "And I'm younger than you, Doctor House. You're starting a clinic practice at an age when most physicians are considering retirement."

"You could be a decrepit ex-circus clown and I'd still feel the same way," he says, just to see what she'll do. To his satisfaction, a curious sort of smile turns up the corners of her mouth.

"One old clown knows another," she says, and he can't help but chuckle.

"Fine. Get your ass in here early on Monday," he says, to put her out of her misery; she's passed the test. "No personal paperwork on company time. Bring your own lunch. Goldman will help you find a place to live and some beater to drive if you need one."

Now Chandler looks a little bewildered. "You mean—you're really gonna hire me?"

"Don't spoil it," he warns her, and turns away to change the record. When he looks she's in the front room with Sarah, who pauses at the doorway and looks over her shoulder, gives Greg a smile and a nod, and then they're gone. Greg sets the needle on the record and closes his eyes as Johnny Young starts to sing "I'm havin' a ball/throwin' it down at the union hall . . ." while James Cotton wails on the harmonica.

_Got my team,_ he thinks. _We're ready to go. It's make or break, but I think it's gonna be make._ A little smile touches his lips. He glances at his watch; time to head off to work. As he gets up he's already planned his last official prank on the nurses, an unexpected bonus in a day already full of promise. That thought gives him pause. Past experience has taught him when everything goes well it means the bottom's about to fall out . . . but somehow he can't shake the conviction it won't happen this time.

_Make and not break,_ he reminds himself, and turns off the music. He puts the record away before he shuts off the light and locks the door behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

_November 28th_

When the alarm went off, Colleen slapped at it in reflex and lay in the darkness, disoriented for a few moments. The room didn't feel right, a sensation she hadn't known in some time. Then she remembered where she was. She took a deep breath, conscious of the pillows under her, the faint smell of woodsmoke and coffee-familiar and disturbing at the same time, as it raised memories of her days with Dodger on the road, where they struggled to find numbness, oblivion, salvation . . . She sat up, shivered a little in the darkness, and groped for her bathrobe.

The kitchen was a haven of warmth and light in the quiet house. Doctor Goldman-Sarah-was up. She sat at the dining room table with a cup of tea and what seemed to be a journal of some kind. She looked up as Colleen approached. "Good morning," she said in her quiet way. "Coffee's ready if you want some."

Colleen availed herself of a large mug, dumped in enough joe to jolt her awake and supplemented it with some sugar-a vast improvement over the bourbon she'd used for years on end as hair of the dog, and other lies she'd told herself to avoid her father's label of alcoholic. A basket of cinnamon rolls sat nearby to tempt her. She debated, got a plate and took one, then returned to the dining room. When she came in Sarah set the journal aside and sipped her tea. Colleen sat across from her and held her mug in both hands, to let the warmth reach her chilled fingers. "I must be out of my mind," she said. Sarah raised her brows.

"It's a new job with an unknown quantity for a boss," she said. "You're not out of your mind. You're just nervous."

"I've worked with guys like him before," Colleen said, and thought of Doctor Richard. "He's not exactly an unknown quantity."

Sarah smiled. "He likes to play with people's heads, yes. But if you surprise him he'll give you a little respect."

"There's an inducement," Colleen said dryly, and Sarah laughed.

"Just stick with it," she said. "Everyone will be finding their footing for the next few weeks, and that includes your boss. Stick to your guns, keep your sense of humor, and do what you need to do. It'll be all right."

Colleen got to her feet. "Good advice," she said. "You've gone through this before yourself."

"A time or two," Sarah said. "When do you want to head out? Don't worry about lunch, I'll pack one for you."

The simple statement brought with it a warmth Colleen hadn't expected. "His Majesty wants me there by eight."

Sarah nodded. "Okay, no problem."

Colleen got to her feet and took her mug with her. "You really do like taking care of people," she said. "Thanks for including me in that obsession of yours."

"You're welcome," Sarah said, and flashed a grin. "Even though I can't help myself."

"Okies," Colleen said, and smiled as Sarah's laughter followed her up the stairs.

She showered and put on the clothes she'd chosen with care the night before. While she was hired as an administrator, until they were able to bring in a couple of nurses it was probable she'd be called on to help out with rounds and chores when the patients showed up. She'd compromised with a new scrubs top and a pair of black slacks, and tucked an extra top in her work duffel just in case. She could probably snag a lab coat if needed, but it never hurt to be prepared. Her hair was easy—all she had to do was tame it with some gel—and she applied minimal makeup, a habit she'd learned from the early days of her career, when nurses were forced to scrub their faces if it was deemed they'd put on too much paint and mascara.

"You look good," Sarah said as Colleen took her coat from the hall closet. "Greg's planning to hire some help in the next week or so, once he gets an idea of the work load."

Colleen didn't say anything until they were in the truck and headed to the clinic. "I'm not Admin," she said. "I'm not sure I know how to do this."

"It's easy," Sarah said. "You're there to deal with anything your boss tosses at you."

"That's easy?"

"Sure. Expect the unexpected, that's all there is to it."

"You are _not_ helping," Colleen said, and Sarah chuckled.

"Greg hates paperwork, waiting for labs, and anything that resembles case notes. He'll dump his mail, his phone calls, and his bills in your lap. Take it as a matter of course that you'll be doing his administrative scutwork. But he'll also ask for your opinion on things because no matter what he says to your face, he does respect you. Be honest and listen carefully. If you can do that, you'll be all right."

"You know him well," Colleen said. Sarah nodded.

"I understand him to some extent."

"Don't be modest," Colleen said. "You're a good shrink. He trusts you because you've shown him you can be trusted." She hesitated. "Do you mind my asking again why you're not in a practice of your own?"

"Let's just say I'm on hiatus," Sarah said. It was clear there was a story behind the simple statement; it was also plain she wouldn't talk about it. Colleen said nothing more.

It was a short jaunt across the village and down the road to the clinic. Sarah stopped on the way at the bakery and brought back an enormous box. It filled the truck with the fragrance of newly-baked pastry. "A little good luck token," Sarah said, and handed it to Colleen. "You'll win friends and influence people with this, trust me. House isn't the only chowhound on the team."

The clinic looked deserted in the grey light of dawn. To Colleen's surprise Sarah put the truck in park and turned off the engine. "Come on," she said. "Let's get this party started."

They went through the building and turned on lights, set the thermostat, and opened blinds and curtains to the new day.

"You get settled in," Sarah said. "I'll do the coffee for you today. Greg likes it strong, but don't let him bully you into making it undrinkable. He'll put up with something less than rocket fuel, he just enjoys bitching about it."

Colleen hung up her jacket and went into the small office she'd been given. It was still bare, as her things hadn't arrived from the moving company yet—but in the middle of her desk was a package with a small envelope. She opened the card.

_Colleen, _

_with best wishes and good luck on your first day,_

_Sarah and Gene Goldman_

The package contained a Cross pen and pencil set, brushed silver and turquoise. Colleen looked down at it, touched by the thought and kindness behind the gift. After a moment she tucked them into the breast pocket of her scrubs, hung her stethoscope around her neck, took a handful of alcohol wipes from the box in her drawer and put them in her pocket, squared her shoulders, and faced the start of her day.

[H]

Joy sat quietly in Chase's car, her backpack on her lap. She watched as the village went by and thought of her mornings just a few weeks ago, as she watched the city pass by through dirty train windows. She didn't really miss Philadelphia, but this was so different . . . it would take some getting used to, the isolation and the mountains, the slower

rhythm of life here.

"Have you ever worked as a fellow before?" Chase said. Joy shook her head. "With House it's never what you expect. He's got his own methods and they can seem random or pointless, but House never does anything without a good reason."

"You—you know him well?" she ventured. Chase chuckled, a warm sound.

"I wouldn't go that far, but I worked with him for years in Princeton so I know how he operates." He glanced at her and offered a smile. "Don't worry. He chose you because he believes you can handle it. I think you'll do fine."

"How on earth did you end up here?" Joy heard herself ask, and winced. To her surprise Chase didn't take offense.

"I ask myself that question almost every day and I haven't come up with a good answer yet," he said. "It's been quite a journey. But I think you could say the same thing."

They arrived at the clinic a few minutes later. Chase pulled the car into a parking spot and turned off the engine. "Here we go," he said, and got out. Joy followed suit, glad to see lights were on in the windows. It felt good to know someone was already there to get things started.

[H]

"Sandesh, you need to get going!"

Singh knotted his tie and shrugged into his suit jacket. He doubted he'd ever wear anything this formal to work again after today, but it _was_ the first day at the new job and absurd as it was, he wanted to make a good impression.

Chitra waited in the kitchen with his lunch and backpack, his coat over her arm. Normally she didn't fuss this much, but she knew it was a special day too, of course. "What did you make me?" he asked, and started to open the bag.

"Leftovers," she said, and smacked his hand. "You're worse than the kids. Hurry up, you don't want to be late."

"Yes, I have to beat the horrendous traffic," he said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "I'll see you when I see you."

"Call if you're going to be terribly late," Chitra said, and he heard the subtle concern in her voice. "I can keep dinner hot for you."

"Thanks," he said, and took his coat. "You have my new number, right?"

"Yes, it's programmed on speed-dial." She handed over his lunch and backpack. "I'll want to hear all about how everything went."

"Of course," he said, and leaned in to kiss her. "Don't let the brainless twits at your workplace get you down. See you later," and he was out the door and on his way to his new job.

It felt odd to travel in a different direction than the one he'd followed for so many years, and doing it in daylight at the beginning of his day rather than at the end. He thought for sure he'd be nothing but nerves; instead he felt a sense of anticipation he'd missed from his daily routine for quite some time. He wouldn't deal with sore throats, runny noses and flu shots for the forseeable future, and that suited him just fine.

He pulled into the parking lot in time to see Chase and Chandler disappear through the back door. He chose the spot next to Chase's car, resigned to the contrast between the younger man's gleaming BMW and his own battered Chevy Lumina, and took a deep breath. "Okay," he said under his breath, and got out.

[H]

When House enters the clinic, it is to music, the fragrance of fresh-brewed coffee, and the sound of his fellows in the conference room as they argue over something. A sense of _déjà vu_ comes over him, but this is still quite different from Princeton-Plainsboro in several respects, not the least of which is that this is his clinic—not Cuddy's or the board of directors: _his_. He stands in the foyer and takes it all in. Then he moves forward and goes to his office to dump his stuff before he detours to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As he tosses his backpack into his chair, he sees a wrapped package on his desk, perched atop his new blotter. With a grin he picks it up and rips off the paper. It's a CD—the new Eric Clapton-Wynton Marsalis live set. There's a note taped to the shrink-wrap. He opens it to reveal Sarah's firm, neat handwriting.

_Good luck and congratulations! _

Under this sentence is Gene's bolder scrawl.

_Don't fuck it up. _

Greg chuckles and puts the note in his pocket. He'll listen to the CD later as a reward for a full day's work. On that cheerful thought he heads into the kitchen. Sarah's there, and so is a big box of danish and doughnuts—her doing, of that he has no doubt. "Hey son," she says, and hands him a mug. "Everyone's ready to go. Colleen gave them a stack of patient files to look through. She's sorting out the new ones now."

He nods and gets his coffee, snags a couple of doughnuts and heads to the conference room. When he reaches it he stands in the doorway for a moment and watches his team. They're deep in discussion, don't even notice he's there, until Singh looks up and says "Hey boss."

Greg moves into the room and claims the chair at the head of the table. He makes himself comfortable, props his feet on the table and leans back. "So what do we have, people?"


	15. Chapter 15

"So, what do you have for me, people?" Greg watches his new fellows closely for their reaction. Predictably, Chase is the first to speak up.

"Five year old boy presents with generalized weakness and fatigue, increased urination and thirst, craving for salt, muscle cramps—"

"Diabetes," Chandler says. Chase gives her a look.

"That's been ruled out," he says.

"You have the test results right there in your grubby little hand?" she says. Chase looks startled.

"If he's being sent here it's plainly not diabetes."

"It's plainly never occurred to you to check first," she says, and Greg gives her points for her answer, though she doesn't know Chase understands that rule fairly well by now.

"What's the bloodwork indicate?" Singh says. He wears an expression of intense interest. After so many years of flu shots and kids with runny noses and sore throats, this must be pure heaven for him. Chase flips through a couple of papers.

"Low potassium, low chloride."

"How's his height and weight?" Greg asks. Chase checks the stats.

"He's on the small side for his age—"

"Either Bartter's or Gitelman," Greg says. "He starts eating a dozen salted bananas every day and someone slips him human growth hormone, he'll be driving his parents crazy by growing out of his clothes every two weeks in no time. Next."

"That's it?" Chandler says. She sounds a little shocked. "This child's whole life will be affected by what we do or don't do for him. You can't just dismiss his case that easily."

For answer Greg tips his head back. "McMurphy!" A moment later she comes to the doorway.

"You bellowed?"

"How many new cases in the mail today?"

She gives a little shrug. "I don't know. Doctor Goldman's picking them up from the post office now. We had to get a P.O. box because the carrier refused to deliver."

"Proving my point," Greg says. He flaps a hand at her. "You can go about your business." He ignores her eye roll and departure and stares at Chandler. "Get yourself accustomed to the cold hard reality that we can't take on every patient, and that includes children and babies. If that's a problem for you, leave now because you'll be useless otherwise." He glances at Chase. "Put a note in the kid's file and send it back to the attending. Tell him to check the kid's blood for high levels of renin and aldosterone. Make sure you call too."

"But you just said—" Chandler begins. She looks bewildered.

"I said we can't save them all. I didn't say I won't share my boundless wisdom and insight when appropriate." He nods at her. "Next."

Chandler favors him with a glare and flips open her folder. "Patient is a twenty year old female who presents with photosensitivity and dry scaly patches as well as ataxia and double vision, all symptoms occurring in the past six months."

"Nothing before that?" Singh says.

"Could be a simple case of sun poisoning," Chase offers.

Chandler shakes her head. "She says the muscle weakness and double vision have gotten a little better over the last four to six weeks, but nothing else has changed."

"Better?" Greg feels his antennae quiver. "Set that one aside." He looks at Singh. "Proceed."

"Eight year old girl with paralysis on the right side of her face. Her mother says she's always had trouble swallowing and couldn't breastfeed as a baby. She was slow to crawl, but seemed to catch up with her age group eventually."

"How long has she had the paralysis?" Chase asks.

"The mother's not sure, but says there's always been something wrong even though she couldn't get any of the doctors to agree with her. Bloodwork has consistently come back clean, no abnormalities."

"Gimme." Greg takes the folder as Singh hands it over and skims through the notes. "Hmm . . . kid's studying piano with just nine fingers." He tosses the file on the table. "We'll take it. Two out of three, that's a good start. Once you're done setting things up, Chase and Chandler head over to Wirth's place for clinic hours. Singh can go through files." His team sits there and stares at him. He flaps a hand at them. "Shoo."

He's in the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee when McMurphy says "Your first nursing interview is here."

"Office, five minutes," Greg says, and heads there to get comfortable. He fires up the tv mounted on the wall and puts it on Soapnet as the woman walks in. She's Mandy's mom, Anne Faust. She wears a nice sweater, good slacks and serviceable flats; her makeup is subdued and her haircut simple. Her good taste almost hides the shabbiness of her cloth coat, her work-worn hands, and the tiredness in her eyes from the double shifts she's put in most of the last few weeks. Still, she sits quietly in the visitor's chair and waits for him to begin the process.

"I'm surprised you want to work here," he says. "Wirth must have had kittens when you told her."

"She's resigned herself," Anne says with a slight smile.

"We work long hours at times. What about your daughter?" He watches her closely to see her reaction. She doesn't flinch or hesitate.

"I've made arrangements for her to stay with the Goldmans if necessary."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Wow, what a non-surprise." He glances at the tv, but keeps her in his peripheral vision. "It's probably too much to expect you've had experience running lab equipment."

"I have some experience, yes," Anne says to his pleased surprise. "It's been a while, but I can at least do basics if I get a refresher first."

"Cool." He switches his gaze to her face. "You need to be sure you can deal with my brand of craziness. I don't have time for someone who'll take the job and then bitch about every single move I make that isn't AMA-approved."

"I survived the coffee yogurt in my locker and cutworms in my lunch, not to mention the pancake syrup bomb you rigged in the fridge last year," she says, with a certain dryness in her tone that tells him she's as amused as she is annoyed. "Anything else will be tame by comparison, no doubt."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far." He knows she'll be a good addition. "Forty hours a week minimum. Talk to McMurphy about particulars. She'll get you started with the paperwork. See you next Monday."

"I'm giving Diane two weeks," Anne says.

"That's really nice of you. Too bad I'm only giving you one. We've got patients coming in and we'll be short-handed until you get here. Wirth's got a dozen nurses. She can spare you." Greg sits back and turns to the soap, a clear dismissal. Anne gives him a keen look but takes the hint and leaves. He watches her stop by the desk to speak with McMurphy. There's an ease between them already that bodes well for the future. Undoubtedly they'll bitch about him behind his back and grumble about his pranks and unreasonable demands. He doesn't care as long as work gets done and he doesn't have to know about it.

A short time later his exec sec comes in with an armload of paper. "Today's mail." McMurphy dumps a stack of files and envelopes on his desk. "Ten resumes, thirty-five patient submissions and a shopping circular. Oh, and this came too." She goes out and returns with a large flower arrangement. It's beautiful, tasteful and comes in a lovely glass vase. There's a note too.

_Congratulations on your opening day! All success—L. Cuddy_

Greg can't help but smile. She'd have been better off to write 'Please don't steal all our patients because Foreman's an idiot'. He's checked up on PPTH in various ways, and the Diagnostics department's got problems of some kind. Not that he wishes them bad luck, but he'd never have put Foreman in charge; Chase maybe, with Thirteen to back him up . . . but it's all academic now anyway. Besides, it looks like he's not the only one who checks up on things. "Put it on the front desk with the note prominently displayed," he instructs, and turns back to his soap. He plops his feet on the desk, settles into his chair and makes a mental note to slip some munchable goodies in his top drawer. "McMurphy!"

She sticks her head around the doorjamb. "What?"

"Send Sarah to the store to get some pretzels and chips."

"She's gone home." McMurphy gives him a look before he can speak. "You don't have to say it. Back in twenty, assuming I can find the place."

[H]

Roz unlocked the kitchen door and stepped inside, glad for the warmth after a day spent in unheated spaces—mainly basements, an attic and two barns. She hung up her jacket and tugged off her boots; she wanted nothing more than to get cleaned up and head over to her husband's office to celebrate his first day.

As she washed her hands and face, she tried to tame the nervousness in the pit of her stomach. Sandesh knew her of course, but the other team members were unfamiliar. She was worried about how Greg would treat her too. Things had been better of late as they slowly re-established their trust, but his behavior could be unpredictable when he was under stress. Hazel had listened to her when she'd voiced her anxiety.

"My current homework for you is to stop by his office after work," she'd said. "Show your support for Greg. Make yourself comfortable there. Let your husband's team members get to know you too." She'd smiled at Roz. "Do it before you go home to clean up, if you can."

_Not today,_ Roz thought with some guilt. She couldn't show up at Greg's workplace in a dirty jumpsuit, especially on the first day. She headed into the bedroom to change her clothes and paused. A book lay on her side of the bed. A bookmark poked out of the top. She sat next to it, picked it up. It was an anthology of verse, one she hadn't seen before. She opened it to the bookmark. There was a scrap of paper tucked between the pages—no words, just a hand-drawn arrow. It pointed to the left. She removed the bookmark and paper and read the poem on the left page.

_The spider, dropping down from twig,  
>Unwinds a thread of his devising:<br>A thin premeditated rig  
>To use in rising.<em>

_And all the journey down through space,  
>In cool descent, and loyal-hearted,<br>He builds a ladder to the place  
>From which he started.<em>

_Thus I, gone forth, as spiders do,  
>In spiders' web a truth discerning,<br>Attach one silken strand to you  
>For my returning.<em>

Roz stared down at the words, and read through the brief stanzas several times. After a moment she began to smile. Quietly she replaced the bookmark, closed the book and placed it on her nightstand. She went out of the room, put on her boots and jacket, and headed off to the clinic.

[H]

"Hey."

Greg looks up from his video game to find his wife in the doorway. She still wears her work clothes. She smiles at him, her moss-green eyes so full of love he blinks.

"Hey yourself," he says, and leans back in his chair. "Didn't come straight from work, I see."

"Not today," she says, and enters the office to come around the desk. "But after this I will."

She found the poem, and she gets it; he knew she would. He grins at her and sets the game aside, pats his good leg. She perches there and slips her arms around him, then gives him a kiss that should set the building on fire. When it ends she says "When do you get out of here?"

"Right now," he says, and she returns his grin. She kisses him again, sweet and lingering. Halfway through someone comes in—Chase.

"Oops," he says, but he's smiling. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Greg says, and takes a firmer hold of his wife's slender hip. "I'm not."

_The Spider's Web (A Natural History), E.B. White_


End file.
